


Inconveniences of the Heart

by Aristophanium



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Feelings, Feels, M/M, Meta, POV Victor Nikiforov, Pining, Slow Burn, definite misuse of champagne and vodka, probable misuse of the Russian language, skatexposition, so much pining
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-22
Updated: 2017-08-06
Packaged: 2018-09-11 03:33:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 39,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8952250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aristophanium/pseuds/Aristophanium
Summary: "Have you thought much about love?"Yuri on Ice season 1, from Victor's point of view.





	1. Chapter 1

“Have you thought much about love?”

“Of course!” laughs Victor as he skates to a halt, sending up a spray of snow from his blades. He smiles at his coach. Yakov asking him about love? This has to be about his theme for the season. “Let’s see,” he touches a thumb to his chin. “My first lover was-”

“No,” interrupts Yakov, stepping up to the barriers. “Not that. The other kind of love.”

"Romantic love?" Victor asks. Is that what Yakov means? Yakov knows everything that goes on with his skaters, he knows Victor has never been with anyone for more than a couple of months.

Yakov nods, his steely gaze unwavering.

"No," scoffs Victor. He’s too busy with practice, coming up with new programs. He lives for the shocked surprise of his coach, the audience, as he moves in a way they’ve never seen before. Where would he have time to think about love? Or any other part of his life? There is no time. It’s lain forgotten beneath his career and his achievements, waiting until he retires. One more year? He says that every time. Then he thinks of a new program that will put him at the top of the podium again. It’s addictive.

“People don’t think of you as a man who is thoughtful,” says Yakov. “They see you as selfish, charming, artistic- but not thoughtful. You could use that to surprise them.”

Victor glances over at Mila. It’s just the two of them practicing today. She’s resting by the barriers, a red water bottle in her hand. She shrugs. “It’s true.” Her eyes narrow as she studies his face.

He hasn’t thought much about how other people see him. He’s always cheerful and happy for interviews and for the judges at competitions. Does that make him seem- thoughtless? Stupid?

Yakov nods, as though his mind is made up. “Think about love. The way it is, or is missing from your life. Does always thinking of yourself first satisfy you?”

Satisfy him enough to keep skating? He puts a hand on his hip. “Of course it does!”

“Victor,” growls Yakov. “Imagine, for a while, that it doesn’t. Imagine that maybe there is something more. Your programs this season should be themed around that. There are no new technical skills for you to learn, just find a new way of expressing them. I want to see something real. You will need to find depth that no one has seen you show before.”

"Are you coreographing for me this year Yakov?" asks Victor, tilting his head to one side to consider his coach, a small smile playing at his lips. Yakov hasn't gone near his programs since he was twenty-three. He’d choreographed something only to have Victor skate an entirely different short program in competition. He can almost still hear his shouts in the kiss and cry. Once his score was announced, though, Yakov had settled down. There’s no point scolding a skater when they’re in first place.

"I wouldn't dream of it, Victor."

\--

Victor sits on the couch in his apartment with Makkachin tangled between his legs. The dog is sleeping, letting out a quiet huff every so often. The sun is about to go down, it casts its last long rays in through his windows. Stripes of sunlight and shadow splay across his ceiling. Everything is quiet.

Love.

Victor has never been in love. Well, no. That’s not true. He loves his parents and Makkachin, but- there’s another kind of love that exists out there somewhere. He’s seen it before with other couples, but he’s never felt anything like it. There are people who have told him they loved him. He’s used to the way their eyes light up when they recognise him. Their backs straighten and they fumble for their phone. _Victor Nikiforov! I love you! Can I have a photo?_ He always says yes, hugs them and smiles sweetly. Is that love? Not for him, at least.

He bites his lip. He’s had many lovers, of course. But even those people didn’t know him, not really. There’s Victor Nikiforov the figure skater and Victor the person. The figure skater is easy to love; he’s happy and charming, just like Yakov said. But then there’s- he looks around his apartment. It’s clean and modern. His bag is abandoned by the door, a battered old paperback by Strugatsky and a packet of dog treats are stacked beside it. Who is he when he’s not on the ice? Living in this apartment, walking Makacchin, going shopping. No one really sees that quiet side of him. No one knows about the deep breath of air he takes every time he steps out onto the rink, a leftover habit from a nervous past. Perhaps only another figure skater could really understand him and the two sides of his life. Has anyone ever really known the real him?

_"Tell me what you like about me?"_

_"I adore your body. The way your ass moves in your costume. Your quad lutz. So elegant."_

_"No, Victor. Not my skating, me."_

_"But your skating is a part of you! Do you want me to kiss you or something?"_

_"Do you care about me at all?"_

Victor frowns, his memory is useless. What happened after that? The rest of the conversation dances like a shadow, just beyond his reach. He and Christophe had ended things not long afterward and Victor hadn’t felt a thing. He’d watched Chris’s green eyes fill with tears and hadn’t understood why. Was it rude to leave him alone to cry? That’s what Victor would have wanted. It was for the best that they go their separate ways; Chris had wanted something more from him that Victor couldn’t understand. Besides, it was a bad idea to sleep with the competition, no matter how skilled they were in bed. He must have known it wasn’t going to last. Not that it helped Victor think of something comforting to say. There was simply no reason for him to cry. Plenty of other men and women wanted Chris, he would find someone new soon.

Victor never saw that quiet, honest part of Chris again. Perhaps Chris has two sides as well; he’s never thought of that before. But it’s okay. Since then, they’ve fallen into an easy friendship. With his life, Victor doesn’t have many friends- Mila, Georgi, Chris, even Yakov. Without them, he’d be all alone.

Victor pulls his phone out of his pocket, careful not to disturb Makkachin. He unlocks it and scrolls down to Chris’s number. Geneva is only a couple of hours behind St Petersburg so he won’t be asleep yet. Unless he’s switched training locations-

“Good evening Victor!” answers Chris in English, their mutual language. He sounds happy.

“Hi Christophe,” Victor replies, smiling. It’s good to hear his friend’s voice again. When was the last time they spoke? It feels like ages.

“Are you calling me to laugh in my face because you won Worlds? I’m not a sore loser. You were better than me, I admit it.”

“No, it’s not that. Though, I meant what I said about your spins. It’s more of a-” Victor sighs, letting his head fall back against the cushion. “A-” He can’t think of the right English word for it. What’s something similar? “A- _weird?_ question?”

“Well,” Chris pauses, “now I’m intrigued.”

“Okay. Do you think I’m thoughtful?”

“It’s-” he chuckles, his voice sultry. “Not the first word that comes to mind when I think of you. Why?”

“Do do you think I’ve ever been in love?”

“Love? No, you live for life on the ice. We all do.”

“What if I didn’t?” Victor frowns, this isn’t helping.

“What’s this about?”

“Yakov. He says people think I’m selfish, charming, but without much substance.”

 There’s silence on the line as Chris considers this. Yakov is probably right. If there’s anything more to Victor, it’s been buried so far under years of thinking about nothing but figure skating that he’ll probably never find it. Perhaps he should just fake some depth for next season. No one but Yakov will be able to tell the difference.

“You’re capable of love,” says Chris, finally. “Or at least, I think you are.”

“Where do you get that idea?” Victor adjusts his grip on the phone, reaching up to switch on the lamp beside the couch.

“Do you remember that night in Rome last year? It was the European Championships. It was cold and raining. The city was almost dead so we went to the opera. Remember the English subtitles on the screen above the stage?

“Yes, I remember!” laughs Victor. He really does, for once.

“It was about two men who were in love and wanted to run away together. It made you cry.”

The story had been haunting. Victor felt-

“At first, I thought you were emotional because of our- situation. But-” Chris chuckles. “It wasn’t that. There are certainly hidden depths to you, Victor. You aren’t heartless.”

Victor’s fingertips play in Makkachin’s fur as he thinks it over. “I don’t know, perhaps I always cry in sad movies and operas.”

“All the more reason. You feel these things for other people, perhaps you will for yourself one day too.” There’s a teasing lilt to Chris’s voice.

“Thanks Chris.” He means it, even if Chris doesn’t. He can start with that and- he sighs. Does he really want another season of this?

 “I can send you the music from the Aria along with the English translation. Perhaps it will inspire you. But you have to promise me one thing. If this ends up being the theme for your program this season, you need to create something that will challenge me.”

“Are my plans that obvious?”

“Of course, mon chéri. You don’t think about anything else.”

\--

Victor is still on his couch thinking when Chris’s text comes through. He’s attached a video of the song along with the lyrics.

 

**Stay Close to Me**

_I hear a voice crying in the distance, have you been abandoned as well?_

_Come now, let's quickly empty this glass of wine._

_I'll start getting ready, now be silent._

_I wish I could cut with a knife, those voices that sing of love._

_I wish I could lock in the ice, those hands that express verses of fiery passion._

_This story that makes no sense, will vanish tonight along with the stars._

_If I only could see you. From hope, would be born eternity._

_Stay close to me, don't go. I'm terrified of losing you._

_Your hands, your legs, my hands, my legs, our heartbeats, all blend together._

_Let's leave together. Now. I'm ready._

There are tears playing at Victor’s eyes. He huffs a laugh and wipes them away with the back of his hand. Perhaps Chris does know him, after all.

He remembers the opera, now. A wealthy young man, Marco, lives alone. He refuses all the pretty young ladies his family tries to match him with. He enjoys parties, adventure. Then he meets another young man just like him. They are enchanted with one another. Only, the other man is married and his wife doesn’t love him. It’s horrible and they become resentful of one another, until one evening when they finally give in to their desires. They agree to run away together and they spend the night planning their escape. But then, the other man finds out his wife is pregnant. He can’t leave. The story ends with Marco alone and heartbroken, swearing never to love again.

Could Victor bring this story of heartbreak and loneliness to life on the ice? Would people laugh at him? In the last scene of the opera, Marco stands in his military uniform. He’s lost, alone, and ready to leave Rome forever. That was the part that made Victor cry. The part that’s making him cry right now. To know exactly what it is, who it is, that would make you happy, but unable to just reach out and take it. The frustrating inconveniences of the heart.

It certainly is different.


	2. Chapter 2

Victor performs his new Free Program for the first time in Rome. The timing is right, and something about being in the same city as Marco’s story gives his heart what it needs to perform. The program took him months of gruelling work to master. He’s not getting any younger, no matter how much he pretends to be as spry as JJ Leroy or Michele Crispino. He hates thinking about it. Skating is all he’s ever known and he’s better now than he ever was before. One day, he won’t be able to compete anymore and it will be no one’s fault. It’s like time is betraying him, day by day. He hates it. Hates endings.

He’s kept the original lyrics from the opera and had the music changed to suit his program. For once, his chosen composer had done it perfectly. Were the lyrics were written for the opera or just for him? The aria is so _his_ now it’s impossible to be sure. He takes a deep breath and glides out onto the ice. In a way, it feels like it was always his.

Flashbulbs go off all around him as he glides into position in the centre of the rink. He’s done this a million times in training, but there’s something about performing it for the first time in competition. The air is full of potential. Of anticipation. He won’t feel this newness again for another year.

He knows every word of the aria in three languages; Russian, English, and of course, Italian. Every note is etched into his memory from the hours of practice. He can recreate the entire thing inside his head. The crowd screams, but the sound of their voices seems oddly muffled. He’s always a bit this way when he performs a new program. He takes a breath, ready for his opening. From the stands, someone shouts ‘Davai!’ and then there’s an anticipatory hush.

It begins.

The familiar notes of the song centre him. He tilts his head up, lets his eyes fall closed, and he feels Marco’s grief wrack through him. He is Marco, standing heartbroken, loneliness crushing him. He’s been abandoned by his lover and he goes to war, never to see him, or his beloved city, again. No one knows him now, no one knows who he really is. He is that desperate voice in the song, crying out in the distance. He glides across the ice and the rest just happens, as if by magic.

The program is completely different to everything he’s skated before. When he started competing in the juniors, he would dance to beautiful ballet pieces. He was young, long-haired and graceful. His trainers pushed him to speak softly and flutter his eyelashes. It’s a common technique for younger skaters and looks stunning on the ice. But skaters only stay both dainty and powerful for a short time. Once he’d aged out of that and cut his hair, he was allowed to be himself again. He stuck mostly to happy songs. Carefree and with a high technical difficulty, but without much substance. Just like him. He’d never realised how much further he could take things until now. This new theme is so different it’s almost foreign. For the first time, he’s skating with his heart.

As he turns, hands aloft, he looks out across the rink to the faceless crowd and feels nothing but heartbreak. It pulls him down where no one can reach him. He is alone out here on the ice and he always will be. There is no one for him. Marco knew love and had it taken away. Victor doesn’t even have that.

He reaches the first jump of the program, a quad lutz.  Focussing on his feet for a moment, the ghost of a smile tugs at his lips. He drives one foot into the other and is propelled, spinning into the air. He holds his arms in tight, body tense and waits for the crash of his skate when he hits the ground again. He hits it hard, rolling the momentum out laterally. He loves this. The moment is fleeting, though. When he lands, he’s once again pulled into sorrow.

\--

Chris’s green eyes are bright when he meets him by the edge of the rink.

“I’m sorry Victor I had to come and see you after that,” he breathes. “I have never seen you move with such passion. I can hardly believe that was you!”

Victor strides forward and hugs him, still out of breath from the exhausting finish. “Thank you,” he murmurs, “for knowing more about me than I knew about myself.” What would his Short Program have been like without Chris? False and empty, probably. He hugs him a little tighter in gratitude before he steps back. “I couldn’t have done this without you.”

“Its fine,” says Chris, a sad smile on his face. “Just, how on earth am I meant to beat you now, you bastard?”

Victor laughs. “You will just have to find a program that suits your own passion.”

\--

“Victor!” one of the reporters thrusts a microphone forward. “Thank you for skating to an Italian song!” he says in English.

“Oh,” Victor swats the praise away and smiles, nice and light. “I had to, the lyrics are just too beautiful to pass over. I was so moved by it.”

“Was there anything in particular that inspired your performance?” asks the reporter. “Do you have a personal connection to the story?”

Victor laughs, rubbing at the sweat drying on the nape of his neck. “Why do you ask that?” he says, playing for time. It’s not a strange question, most skaters stick to themes that have a personal connection to their lives. Or at least, that’s what they tell everyone. Often, though, the theme is just picked out by their coach because it’s a favourite with the judges. Victor’s theme for the year, loneliness, is a strange choice.

“Your performance was heart-rending. The grief, the longing- it was so plain on your face,” gushes the reporter. “Have you also been spurred by a male lover?”

“Ah-” Victor chuckles, his expression still fixed on a smile. “Are you asking if I’m gay?”

The rumours have always been there, so many male figure skaters are. Ever since juniors when he had long hair, spun around in a costume with a half skirt and took his first gold for Russia, people have asked. Once, another competitor, long since retired, asked him whether he should be in the women’s category instead. He-

“That’s enough interview for today,” says Yakov, pulling Victor away by his elbow. “We would like to watch the other competitors. Thank you for your support.”

Victor steps back, waving to the rest of the interviewers and the crowd beyond. He turns to follow Yakov, his heart pounding. That was a mistake. He doesn’t let it show.

“Idiot,” mutters Yakov in Russian so no one else can understand. “Now this will be your question for the rest of the season.”

They walk down the brightly lit corridor, back to the dressing room. There’s sweat pricking at Victor’s skin under his costume. He feels hot and worn out.

“Let them ask,” he says, flicking his hair from his eyes. “I don’t care what they think of me.” He doesn’t. He is so tired.

“Tell me that again in a few more months. This isn’t new to you, Vitya. You should know better.”

Victor rolls his eyes, reaching the dressing room and tugging at his collar before Yakov has even got the door closed. “Why don’t they ask me the fun questions?”

“What would you have them ask?” says Yakov, pulling Victor’s bag down from the lockers and finding his ‘Russia’ branded tracksuit and a plastic bag. He holds it out for Victor.

Victor drops the sweaty costume into the bag and strides over to the shower. He and Yakov have done this dance hundreds of times. They could probably do it in their sleep.

“Well,” he says. “They could ask me what my favourite colour is.” He turns on the tap and jumps in under the spray, feeling the sweat roll off him and onto the tiled floor. “It’s magenta by the way.”

“They want to sell newspapers, that’s all. Let them talk, never add to it.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Yakov hands him a towel just as Victor turns the taps back off. He’ll shower properly once he’s at his hotel, this is just so he isn’t itching with dried sweat for the next couple of hours. “You gave them too much today.”

Victor sighs, grabbing the towel. He strides over to the pile of clothing by his bag. “Don’t worry, it happens to everyone sometimes.”

The truth is, there’s no personal experience behind the aria. It’s just an emotion. He’s never loved anyone enough to feel loss or heartbreak like Marco. And yet, the song makes him feel a loneliness so deep it may as well be real. As for whether he’s gay, well. He likes sex and, man or woman, he doesn’t mind. But that’s not something for everyone in Russia, or the rest of the world, to know.

“Come, Vitya. I want to see the other performances.”

Victor hurries into his clothing and they head back up to take their seats in the stands. These early competitions are always exciting, so many new programs making their debut. They’re just in time to watch JJ – brash and overconfident, and Chris – lean and sexual. The skater that catches Victor’s eye, though, is the Japanese one. His step sequence is flawless.

“Are you watching this?” Victor murmurs, still in Russian. He doesn’t want anyone overhearing them.

“Mm. His name is Yuri Katsuki. Ranked number one in Japan. He’s always had good form but his jumps-”

The skater jumps, spins in the air and lands, his hand hitting the ice hard before he’s able to right himself. The crowd gasps.

“Hmm,” Victor leans forward, fingertip on is chin. “His execution seems fine, it’s like something goes wrong while he’s mid-air.” Now that he’s recovered, he’s back to perfect form.

“Nerves, probably. I’ve seen it before,” says Yakov, with a shrug. “I wouldn’t worry much about him as a competitor. He’s only going to get worse, the further he progresses.”

“Mm.”

They lapse into silence, watching Yuri Katsuki’s program. He glides out and tucks into a spin, tight and technically perfect. But there’s something else as well, it’s as though he’s one with the music. His presentation and form really is on par with Victor’s, but he only seems to land about half his jumps. When he does, though, it’s brilliant.

“If only _our_ Yuri was as strong on his fundamentals as this,” Yakov huffs.

“He’s young.”

“He’s too preoccupied with achieving a high technical score. Did you see him earlier today? Attempting quads while his step sequence looks like a tap dance?”

Victor smiles, eyes still on Katsuki. “If you want, I can talk to him for you.”

“Good idea. He looks up to you. They all do.”

It’s strange. Victor remembers having his own idols when he was starting out. A single glance from one of them would boost his performance, his entire season. He still gets nervous around them, even though he’s the world-record holder for both men’s senior programs. But they were the ones on television when he could barely skate. They are the ones who did it first. They inspired him to be who he is today. It doesn’t feel right, having them retired. Gods don’t retire. And yet, all these juniors are coming in and looking up at _him_ in awe instead. Don’t they know they could be looking up to the real greats?

Victor narrows his eyes as Katsuki finishes his program with a flourish and drops to his knees, filled with emotion.

“Adequate,” huffs Yakov.

Inspiration can come from anywhere, he supposes.


	3. Chapter 3

_“Sure enough, he’s crushed the free-skating event as well! This marks the fifth consecutive Grand Final win for Russian legend Victor Nikiforov!”_

Victor holds his gold aloft and smiles for the cameras with Chris and JJ not far behind. Getting closer every year.

This is where he feels it, once he’s completed his Free Program and sat down for a bit. It was agony getting up again and strapping his skates on for the medal ceremony. When he’s training and competing, his feet hurt almost all the time. He had to stop running and start cycling for his warm-up’s early last year. Anything to keep him off his feet for a little longer. Figure skating is mad. Anyone who thinks bouncing and spinning around on solid ice is a healthy pursuit is mad. Victor is mad. Right now, it’s all he can do to keep a casual smile on his face through the pain. All he wants to do is rip his skates off and toss them as far as he can. They’re like a cage. His quads are aching, his hamstrings too, his fucking feet-

The flashing of the cameras is endless. It’s almost enough to make his eyes water; he’ll never get used to it. Victor looks down at the medal and lifts it to his lips. He can almost smell the bunch of roses in his other hand under the smell of cold sweat and ice skates. The flashbulbs intensify and his smile turns genuine. Yes, he still has it. They all love this. He is still the champion for this year, at least. And he’s won gold for Russia _in_ Russia and the crowds adored him. He can see Chris out of the corner of his eye, lifting up his silver. He has a bad Achilles tendon, is he smiling through the pain too, right now? At least Victor isn’t alone.

He holds his arms aloft for the cameras and smiles again. He loves this pose, he does it every Grand Prix Final. It makes him look strong and lean, every inch the gold medal winner. One day, he plans to put all the photographs of himself in this pose into a flipbook. It will be funny. A history of his career in gold medals and ridiculous poses. Has anyone ever noticed he’s done this every time?

He gestures for Chris and-

“On your right!” laughs JJ, gliding around him towards the photographers, all white teeth and lean muscle. He doesn’t look like a single inch of his body is in pain. Victor laughs for the cameras and shakes his head. Fucking teenagers. He was never so insufferable when he was 18, was he? He was far too busy crying in the bathrooms, win or lose. It was a comforting place. Yakov had always said it was better to let out your emotions than bottle them up. Sometimes, he’s tempted to pick up that old habit again. But people would notice. And what would that say about him? No, he’s far too seasoned for that.

Perhaps if he loses next year.

\--

Victor pushes the double doors open and he and Yuri Plisetsky stride out into the foyer of the Sochi Ice Palace. His feet are still aching so he focuses on critiquing the boy’s performance to keep his mind off them. Since Yuri stopped trying to land quads all the time, he’s actually gotten quite a bit better. He’s not gangly and uncoordinated anymore, at least. Quietly, even Yakov has said he’s progressing well.

“Yuri, you did well tonight, but I think your step sequence could use a bit more finesse.” He uses English with Yuri; the kid grew up in Glazov before he moved to Moscow and then St Petersburg. He needs all the practice he can get.

“I won, didn’t I?” drawls Yuri. “So who really cares? Quit nagging me, already.”

Victor bites his lip to supress a grin. Who taught him the word ‘nagging’? The kid is such a little punk. Yakov is up ahead, stern as always. They’re late, but it’s Yuri’s fault.

“Yuri!” he hollers.

This isn’t the first time their trainer has seen the boy since he competed, they sat together in the kiss and cry when he received his winning score. Not that it makes any difference. Yakov has had time to stew and that always means he’s got a new list of things to yell at Yuri about; not that he doesn’t deserve it. Victor puts a hand on his hip and relaxes in for a long-haul scolding when he feels someone’s eyes on him.

He glances around to see the Japanese skater, the other Yuri, looking at him. He visibly jumps when Victor catches his gaze.

“You want to get a photo?” Victor asks, hopeful. He has one with all the other finalists. The best six in the world for this year, at least. It’s a great souvenir for some day in the (not too distant) future when all he’ll have is memories from his competitive days. “Sure thing!”

Yuri Katsuki looks shocked and, instead of saying ‘yes’ and grabbing his phone, he turns and walks away.

Victor feels his face fall.

The Japanese reporter, Hisashi Morooka is standing nearby. He yells something at Yuri. Victor knows a tiny bit of Japanese, but not enough. Perhaps the reporter wants the photo for his newspaper; maybe that’s why Yuri isn’t keen. But why not take Victor aside and say so? He knows Yuri speaks English.

Victor keeps his eyes on him, the sound of Yakov’s shouts drowning out the rest of the room. When the door opens to let Yuri outside, the bitterly cold air of the Russian evening comes billowing in. Did Victor do something to offend him? He doesn’t know as much as he’d like about Japanese culture outside of figure skating, but he’s pretty sure he’s okay. He didn’t even push him out of a medal-winning position so then-

“Victor!”

He turns. Yakov, still pink in the face from shouting, beckons him.

“Let’s go,” Yakov says, once he’s caught up with them. “I need you both well-rested for the banquet tomorrow night. I don’t want anyone falling asleep once it’s past their bedtime.” He chuckles.

“Yes. You never know, it might be my last as the Grand Final winner for the seniors division,” Victor says, smiling down at Yuri.

The punk smiles, his eyes on the pavement.

No matter how playful Victor is about it, all three of them know his words may well be true.

\--

Mila leans in, straightening his tie, her eyes intent.

Victor holds his breath. It needs to be perfect.

“There,” she says, once she’s done. “You’ll be the belle of the ball.”

Victor inclines his head. She looks beautiful too; her hair is an artful tumble, crafted by someone with an incredible eye for detail. Her dress is a soft pink, its gold piping matches the carpet of the hotel room.

“Not me?” Georgi asks, affronted. He’s leaning by the bathroom door. His suit clashes horribly with the room’s décor.

“No,” says Victor, smiling. “Our Yakov will, as always, be the most beautiful.”

Its lucky Yakov isn’t in the room with them or Victor would be getting an earful. Their coach had been a professional figure skater in his youth. He’d been exceptionally good looking, with all the ballerinas in the Bolshoi Ballet after him. Every now and then, Victor likes to print out old photos of Yakov in his competition days and wallpaper the bathrooms at their rink in St Petersburg with them. The juniors always steal them before Yakov notices, they’re too funny not to want a copy of. Yakov’s great beauty is something Victor never stops finding funny, especially now that he’s balding and has taken to wearing that ridiculous hat.

Perhaps one day it might not be so funny. Victor touches the top of his own head. It’s not thinning, it can’t be. It looks the same as ever, but it feels-

“Where is Yakov, anyway?” asks Mila, reaching for her makeup bag and heading back to the bathroom.

“That little punk tried to run off again,” Georgi sits, heavily, on Victor’s hotel bed. “Yakov wanted me to go and find him. I said I didn’t have time. He has no idea how much work this takes.” Georgi gestures to his own hair.

“Well,” Victor fiddles with the handkerchief in his jacket pocket, checking himself in the tall mirror. “It just wouldn’t do for you to have a single hair out of place.”

It won’t matter, really. The banquet is just another one of those compulsory events. The only reason they all put so much work into it is because of the photographers at the door. Once they’re in, there’s a blanket ban on publication. For the best, really.

“Speak for yourself,” sighs Mila, checking her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

Victor smiles. “Yes. I like to look nice. There’s nothing wrong with that.” He tugs on his vest so that it sits just right and admires his reflection. “And I’m good at it, I think.”

“Of course you are,” says Mila, distracted. “Georgi, did you use up all my-”

Victor’s phone rings. “Sorry, sorry,” he says, ducking out of the room before he can get in trouble for helping himself to Mila’s mascara. Though, in his defence, Georgi is wearing far more than just her mascara.

He shuts the door behind him just as someone brushes past him on their way down the corridor. Distracted, he answers his phone.

“Алло?”

“I love it when you speak Russian,” purrs Christophe.

“Chris!” Victor says, switching to English. “I have to thank you for the phone call, you just got me out of a tricky situation.”

“How about I get you into one as well?”

“Oh?”

“I did it, Victor. Finally. After years of trying, I got a spinning pole into the banquet.”

“Really? Wow!” Victor leans back against the wall of the corridor. It’s no exaggeration, Chris really has been trying to sneak one in for years. Every time, security or the hotel staff seem to stop him.

“I suppose Mother Russia has her perks. The staff here are surprisingly easy to bribe.”

Victor laughs, trying to keep the bitterness at bay. Typical Russia.

“So?” asks Chris.

“I’m not getting up there, if that’s what you’re asking. I think you’ve seen enough of my backside to last you another year, haven’t you?” teases Victor.

“There’s still the European Championships and the Worlds. I’m working on putting some more _sexy_ into my routine. Perhaps you’ll be the one standing behind me.”

It’s happened before, though not so much lately. Victor can’t win _every_ competition. “I look forward to it,” he says. Having Chris beat him wouldn’t be so bad. At least Chris isn’t a teenager.

“What about the others? Do you think I’ll be able to get each of the other finalists up onto the pole?”

“Hmm,” Victor knows how relentless Chris can be. Could he?

“It will certainly test my powers of seduction,” says Chris. “See if I have enough sex appeal to take gold at Worlds.”

“I doubt you’ll have much trouble,” most of the skaters this year are exhibitionist enough that they’d need no encouragement at all. Except- “except for one. Yuri Katsuki, the Japanese skater. He won’t.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Chris, it’s whatever you want it to be! I just think, there’s no way you’ll get Yuri Katsuki up onto that pole.” It’s most certainly a challenge.

“And what if I do?” Chris’s voice sounds dangerous, but Victor’s heart is alight with excitement. So much for another boring banquet, he loves this sort of thing.  

“Hmm,” Victor considers it, a finger touching his chin. What could he give Chris if he succeeds? Almost anything is up for grabs, he’s not going to manage it. Though, it will be fantastic to see him try. Can the Japanese Yuri be charmed by Chris too? No. “What do you want from me, Chris?”

“Aside from your world number one ranking?” He pauses. “Well, there may be one tiny thing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy-o! I certainly understand why most fic writers are calling them Yuri and Yuuri now! I just find when I read, I don’t tend to pay attention to the number of u’s and get confused anyway. Basically, this will all be a lot easier once I can start calling the Russian one Yurio. Wow, this is my first author’s note… Hyello! Please let me know if you’re enjoying this.


	4. Chapter 4

The Russian skaters arrive at the banquet together. It’s a tradition that started before even Victor was a competitive skater. There’s just something about a group of them arriving all at once that always has heads turning. Intimidating, perhaps? Though, they compete against one another just as much as they do against the other athletes.

The banquet is already in full swing when they arrive. There’s champagne and designer clothing everywhere. Everyone looks incredible; Victor’s proud of his little skating family. The chandeliers sparkle and there’s a huge array of fresh food by the far wall. It doesn’t take long for Victor to spot Chris’s dance pole gleaming dangerously over to the side, ignored by skaters and staff alike. So far, Yuri Katsuki is missing; perhaps he’s already gone back to Japan? His stomach feels heavy at the thought. Since yesterday, Victor has kept thinking of him. He grabs a glass of champagne from one of the offered trays and takes a sip, nodding to Michele and Sara Crispino across the room.

It’s not long before Victor is surrounded by judges, fans, and other skaters offering their congratulations. No one ever wants to approach him first, but once one does, the floodgates open. It’s the same thing over and over: No, he’s not sure what his next season will hold. Yes, this program is very different to last year’s. Thanks for the congratulations. No, he didn’t bring the medal tonight. The whole thing is only made more intense by the fact that they’re in Russia so  _everyone_  can talk to him, even the locals that don’t speak English.

This sort of thing used to be exhausting. At his first Grand Prix banquet, he spent most of the evening hiding in the bathrooms, tugging at his hair and trying to breathe. He kept having this feeling that people were only talking to him because they felt like they had to. Now he knows that’s not true; there are real fans here. He’s in his element, well-rested and looking every inch the gold medalist. He can small-talk for hours without a hint of fatigue. He makes a point of introducing Yuri to some journalists who are looking to do a feature on the new generation of Russian skaters.

He’s halfway through his how- _not_ -to-insult-journalists talk with Yuri when the Japanese Yuri and coach Celestino finally arrive. Yuri is wearing glasses, slouched down and frowning. It’s clear the only reason he hasn’t already run for the exits is because of Celestino gripping him tightly around the shoulders, practically holding him in place. Victor smiles. There’s no way Chris is going to get him up on that dance pole.

He turns and opens his mouth to continue his lecture about journalists, only to find his own Yuri has left. “Little punk,” he mutters to himself, setting his empty champagne glass down on the table.

“Victor,” Chris steps into place beside him, handing him one of the two fresh champagne glasses he’s holding. “Good evening. I see my target has arrived.”

“Yes.” Victor takes a sip of the champagne, and looks out across the crowd at Yuri. He’s standing by himself, lost in thought. “Be careful with him,” says Victor. “He finished sixth yesterday and this is his first Grand Prix final, he might be upset.”

“Just watch me,” murmurs Chris.

He turns and heads in Yuri’s direction. Victor watches, keeping his gaze away from the man who has been staring at him for the past few minutes trying to work up the courage to say hello. When Chris reaches Yuri, all he does is place the other full glass of champagne on the table beside him and saunter away again.

That’s his plan, then.

\--

Victor had been so wrong. He can’t seem to stop shaking his head and telling himself that over and over again. He was wrong, so wrong! Yuri Katsuki has loosened his, frankly, horrible tie and he’s laying down dance moves like a gold medalist. His face is alight with alcohol-fuelled joy. He can spin and slide as though he’s on the ice. Better, even. His motions are smooth and flawless. His suit jacket pulls tight across his back as he raises his arms, spinning. This will teach Victor not to judge people on looks alone. Yuri might be nervous when he competes, but this is who he really is. He’s joyous, free, and a little bit mad.

Victor pulls his phone out from his pocket. The champagne is making him vague and giggly, so he has to capture this. Not to post online, this is a private event and he doesn’t have permission, but just for later. His sober self will want to see this. Have proof.

“Yeah Yuri!” someone shouts as the skater does a pirouette with a bottle of Brut in his hand.

“Sorry,” Victor says to the businessmen he’s been talking with as he leans over their shoulders to take a photo of Yuri, now kicking his way up into a handstand. One of their shoulders is in the frame, but it will be good enough.

The Russian Yuri darts onto the dance floor screaming “Dance off! Dance off!” in such heavily-accented English, he’s barely intelligible. Hopefully he’s only had one or two drinks, though Mila is an expert at sneaking them for herself and any other underage skaters so he’s probably had nearly as many as Victor.

“You!” shouts Japanese Yuri, grabbing him in a headlock. “I will never retire. I will defeat you!”

Mila is near the edge of the dance floor, laughing and clapping her hands. There are some others smiling and taking photos too, but for the most part no one is surprised by their antics. With the photography ban, drunk dancing is an inevitability, but it’s  _who’s_ dancing that has Victor smiling so wide.

The two Yuris are jumping and kicking the air, each trying to outdo the other. They both have a real flow going. They’re wild, out of breath and laughing.

“Can you do this, asshole?” The Russian Yuri flips into a one-armed air-flare, his legs flying like he weighs nothing. It looks difficult, but it’s probably easy. Victor could do it.

“Yes!” The Japanese Yuri copies him, slightly more elegant. “Can you do this?” He jumps as high as he can, twisting in the air with both arms tight in against his chest. Victor could do the same jump higher, he’s sure. Why don’t they try a-

“Thank you. Have a lovely evening,” Victor says to the businessmen and he darts away, switching his camera phone to video mode. Who has time to talk to boring old oligarchs when he could be having fun?

“Yuri!” he calls. “Do a monkey flip!” He means the Russian Yuri, but Katsuki gets to him first.

“Victor Nikiforov!” he yells. “We’re having a dance off!”

“Wow!” Victor laughs, punching the air with one fist. He’d do a flip himself if it weren’t for his tightly-tailored suit. The footage on his phone is a mess of feet and limbs but he doesn’t care.

Yuri’s eyes are alight, his whole body vibrates with excitement. Victor can’t resist, he strikes a pose. He wants Yuri to laugh even more. For those bright eyes to be trained on him and only him.

“Not like that, you idiot!” the Russian Yuri waves his arms in a complicated pattern. “Do this!” He repeats the movements and the other two try to copy him. It doesn’t last long before he falls over with a heavy thud.

The Japanese Yuri cheers in victory as Mila rushes forward to help the little punk up and away from the dance floor.

“How about we get you a glass of water, eh?” she asks in Russian, throwing a guilty smile Victor’s way.

“I won! I won!” shouts the Japanese Yuri, grabbing Victor around the waist. All of a sudden he’s there, warm and a tiny bit sweaty. His huffed laughter smells of champagne. He darts off again before Victor can react. It won’t do.

“Hey!” Victor abandons his phone and steps into a high lunge, his arms out.

Yuri spots him, his face breaking into another smile. He one up’s the lunge with an elegant high kick, landing right in front of Victor. They keep at it, circling one another. Victor is intent on Yuri; it feels like the rest of the banquet has melted away and all that matters is his laugh, his messy hair, his rumpled shirt.

How could such a wild, beautiful person have been hiding under the surface all along? In a way it makes sense, when Yuri is competing, it’s like the music is already inside him and he’s just using his body to express it. That kind of performance takes real passion, how did Victor not see it before? The surprise, the real Yuri, takes his breath away.

Yuri steps forward and grabs Victor by the waist again. His strong arms hold him firmly as he spins and dips him backwards. There’s something sharp in his gaze. Victor sees it for just a moment before he lets his head tilt back, shutting his eyes so he doesn’t get dizzy. Yuri pulls him back up again, close, his hair falling over his eyes. He moves like a tango dancer. Victor can almost hear the Spanish guitar that should be accompanying his movements.

Victor leans in, letting him take the lead. Their fingers are intertwined, Yuri’s thumb slides elegantly across the back of Victor’s hand. He pushes at Victor, sending him away by a few steps. Victor feels cold, missing the contact immediately, but Yuri winks at him and pulls him close again, his arm wrapping possessively tight around his waist. They twist and dance together, Victor’s eyes never leaving Yuri’s. His expression has changed completely. Gone is the flushed, laughing skater and instead there’s a foreign intensity to his dark eyes. He’s beautiful. It’s like he’s seeing into Victor’s soul and giving him everything he’s wanted this year. More.

No one has stopped them, their spark must be palpable. Somewhere along the way, this stopped being a dance-off and became a duet. This is what Victor needs, someone like Yuri to push away all his fears and see him as he is. Yuri spins him again, pulling him in by the waist. His strong forearms flex. He’s pure sex, his lean frame pressed against Victor’s. It’s too much, but at the same time Victor wants more. He wants to press him against the wall and kiss him in front of everyone. Yuri’s kiss would set his world alive, change everything. He never expected this, not ever. He  _never_ wants Yuri to stop holding him, perhaps they-

 “Yuu-rii!” calls Chris. “I challenge you to a dance off!”

Yuri turns, breaking their connection. Victor feels it like a punch to the stomach. Yuri’s eyes widen when he sees Chris and the pole. Chris is down to just his trousers and tie, a bottle of champagne in his hand.

“I bet you can’t do this!” Chris pulls at the pole, his arms flexing. He lifts his torso, lets his head fall back and spreads his legs, spinning upside down. It looks like incredible fun.

“Let’s do it!” Yuri exclaims, turning to Victor. It’s not like before, he’s back to drunk excitement again.

“Not in this suit,” says Victor, his mouth a tight smile. His feet and thighs are sore again from just regular dancing, there’s no way he can risk an injury from falling off a dance pole too. Yuri will probably think he’s a boring prude now. He squeezes Yuri’s hand. “Stay with me?”

 “But-”

“Yuri, I know you want to!” calls Chris. His voice sounds impressively normal for someone who is upside down.

“Okay okay!” says Yuri. He drops Victor’s hand and starts pulling off his trousers.

Victor’s stomach flips.

Chris dismounts and heads over, keen to make sure Yuri doesn’t change his mind.

Yuri grabs his glasses and tie out of his trouser pockets as he steps out of them. He puts on his glasses, tightening the tie around his forehead, and turns to face Victor, ready for battle. He looks cute as hell, tripping over his shoes as he kicks them away.

 “Victor!” Yuri grabs him around the waist and pulls him close again.

Victor can feel Yuri’s hipbones through the fabric of his suit, rocking gently against him. He freezes in place, this feels better than it has any right to. The contrast between the  _eros_  of his hips and the  _agape_  in his eyes is stunning. For the first time in years, Victor has no idea what to do.

“My family runs a hot springs resort. When the season’s over you should come visit.” He looks up at Victor, his cheeks flushed pink. “Hey, I got an idea. If I win the dance off? Come to Hasetsu and be my coach!”

His coach? Victor has never even- he couldn’t. He’s not smart enough; he’d do more harm than good. How could bright-eyed Yuri Katsuki ever think Victor would be trustworthy enough, capable enough, to put his career on the line?

“You’ll do it won’t you Victor?” Yuri grabs him around the shoulders again. “Be my coach!” He giggles, his lips just inches away.

Victor gasps. He’s never wanted anything more in his life.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I tried my best to reconstruct what happened at the Banquet based on the photos from Ep10 and let me tell you, once you start looking at them, there are continuity errors everywhere! Yuri’s takes off his tie as soon as he gets drunk. Later on, the tie is either in his pocket, around his neck again or on his head. Victor’s jacket is removed and then put back on again, Yuri’s glasses are only there when he’s first drinking and in the ‘Be my coach!’ bit at the end… don’t even get me started on his vanishing and reappearing shirt and trousers! The whole thing’s a mess so have pity.  
> \- The pole move Chris does is called an ‘air invert’. Here’s what it looks like: https://youtu.be/_WVTRk6jSOI?t=2m11s


	5. Chapter 5

“Where is Celestino?” asks Chris, his arm looped around a nearly-sleeping Yuri.

“Well,” Victor looks around at the thinning crowd. “You know what Celestino’s like, asleep after two glasses of wine. Remember last year? He’s probably back in his room.”

“Well, do you know which hotel room to drop this one off at?” Chris gestures to Yuri. “He says he’s lost his room key.”

“I can’t find it,” slurs Yuri.

Victor looks down at the bleary-eyed Yuri, his heart skipping a beat when their eyes meet. He wants to talk to him, figure out what the hell just happened, but the champagne has really taken effect on him now. “You didn’t have to give him _so_ much to drink,” he says to Chris.

“Perhaps not, but there’s no room for mistakes when it comes to seduction- or skating,” murmurs Chris, a dangerous smile playing at his lips. “Besides, I won our bet, didn’t I?”

“Our bet?” Victor’s mind is blank. When did- “Oh!” Right. “About that, Chris there’s-” he swallows.

The Russian Yuri hits Victor on the back and stumbles into place beside him, his eyes dark with fury. “Эй, мудак! Како́го ху́я ты ещё тут стои́шь?” His accent is so thick and his words are so slurred, Victor can barely understand him. Why is he still standing here? Perhaps? He looks over to Chris, helpless.

“How should I know what he’s saying?” Chris asks. “ _You’re_ the Russian.” He hoists the Japanese Yuri up again so he doesn’t fall.

“I’m not from Glazov!” Victor chuckles, turning to address the little punk. “We’re trying to figure out where the Japanese Yuri’s hotel room key has gone. Have you seen it?” Victor uses Russian. If his shouting is anything to go by, Yuri’s probably too far gone to manage a single word of English.

“Мне до пизды́ твои́ пробле́мы,” snarls Yuri.

“He- ah-” He furrows his brow, playing the sounds over again in his head before attempting to translate them. “Doesn’t give a fuck about my problems? I think?” Victor’s pretty sure.

“Look,” Chris sighs. “How about you take _that_ Yuri back to his hotel room, he’s next door to you, right?”

Victor nods. So far the arrangement with Yuri is working well. Sure, he listens to a lot of loud music, but he always wears headphones so it’s fine. Much better than listening to the crash of Georgi practicing his spins after midnight.

“I’ll go past reception, and take _this_ one to his room. The staff on desk know where everyone’s sleeping. I’m sure someone will want to help.” Chris practically purrs the last part. Victor has no doubt he will be able to get the information and a spare room key out of them.

“Okay but-” he hesitates, “are you sure? You’re going to be okay?” He glances down at Yuri again.

“ _Yes_ ,” Chris rolls his eyes. “I’ll get this darling to bed, safe and sound.”

“My head hurts,” sighs Yuri.

“Come on.” Chris guides him away, giving a curt nod to Victor. “I’ll call you once I’m done.”

With a sigh, Victor turns back to his own Yuri and switches to Russian. “How about we get you back to your hotel room?”

“Охуи́тельно! Подви́нь жо́пу!” exclaims Yuri.

“Yes, yes,” laughs Victor, leading him to where he dropped his phone, and then out towards the elevators. “You’re going to have to slow down and speak more clearly. I can’t really understand you when you’re this drunk.”

“I’m not drunk, I’m Russian,” growls Yuri, slightly more intelligible now that he’s gotten what he wants and they’re moving.

“You’re just tired,” counters Victor. “It’s lucky you’re so young, you might not even get a headache from this. Though,” Victor chuckles, “Yakov might give you one when he hears about that dance-off.”

“You will tell no one about that. About any of tonight.”

“I won’t if you won’t,” says Victor, smiling. “We never mention tonight again. Deal?”

“Deeeeal,” Yuri slurs, in English. He stops just shy of the elevator doors, pushing his hair out of his face with both hands. “I always thought you’d be- I don’t know.”

“Hmm?” Victor presses the button for the elevator.

“More magic-al. You always seemed magical when I used to watch you on television. In the newspaper. You’ve been everywhere, magical, since- forever.” Yuri reaches for his arm, but changes his mind, snatching his hand back again. “But now I know you, you’re just a _normal_ guy.” He says it like it’s an insult.

“Everyone is, once you get to know them.”

“It doesn’t matter,” sighs Yuri. “Just means I can do it too. Next year when you help me. I can win for you. For Russia.”

Victor has no idea what Yuri is talking about, so he pats him on the head, earning a scowl from the boy. “Okay Yuratchka.”

\--

“Your darling boy is tucked safe in bed,” murmurs Chris, as soon as Victor answers his phone.

“My- what?” Victor rolls onto his back and stares up at the hotel ceiling. His mind is in a tangle, replaying the last few hours on a loop.

“Don’t be coy, I saw the way you two were dancing. Champagne looks good on both of you. You have great chemistry.”

“He surprised me,” Victor clarifies. That’s all it was, right? “I never thought he’d be the one to start a dance-off.”

“Well, he’s asleep now. I even forced enough water into him that he might only have a hangover for one day instead of two.”

Victor smiles, kicking the blankets away from his legs. Champagne is pretty lethal in large quantities. “Did he say anything?”

“He didn’t mention you, if that’s what you want to know, you old fox.” Chris chuckles.

“Oh,” Victor blinks. “I thought we-”

“He had at least three bottles of champagne, I doubt he meant any of what he said.”

“You heard him too, huh?” Victor runs a hand through his hair.

“Victor,” Chris chuckles. “The whole banquet heard him! Look, don’t worry about it. He won all the dance off’s and we all had a great time.”

“And he didn’t say anything about me- at all?”

“He was more worried about not waking up his coach. Not that there was much risk of that. You were right about Celestino by the way. How did your Yuri go?”

“Fine. He’s asleep too.” Yuri had practically fallen asleep before his head hit the pillow. He hadn’t even stirred when Victor switched the light off and shut the door behind him.

“Well, that’s good. We’ve done our duty as the old relics. I fly out in the morning. I suppose I’ll see you at the European Championships next month, unless you’re going to the MNNT Cup.”

“I’m not sure.” Victor doesn’t compete in every competition, he leaves all the planning up to Yakov. He gets out of bed and heads for his suitcases.

“Well, if you’re there, you can surprise me with that reward for winning our bet,” purrs Chris.

Victor shakes his head, he’s too tired for this. “Sure,” he sighs.

“Goodnight Victor. See you soon.”

“Sweet dreams.”

Victor hangs up and tosses the phone back onto his bed. He turns to unzip his suitcase. There’s vodka in there somewhere; a gift from one of his fans at the final. He’s bone tired, but far too buzzed to sleep yet. It’s like Yuri’s hands are still all over him. Slender fingers digging into his waist, his warm torso twisting, hips grinding. Victor shakes his head, trying to keep the thoughts from overwhelming him again. He was drunk, it meant nothing.

The vodka bottle is cool under his fingers as he works the cap open. He drinks down a mouthful without bothering to look for a glass, he’s in Sochi after all. The burn works its way down his throat, it makes him feel hollowed out.

He asked him to be his _coach_. He looked up at him with the most pure, bright-eyed expression while he rolled his hips against Victor’s. How can someone be both so beautiful and so- filthy. Victor swallows down another mouthful of vodka. He doesn’t care that he’s already several drinks in, he’s entitled to a few days off after his win.

Victor wanted to say yes to him. He wanted to be his coach. Could he do it? Take a year off the ice and work on Yuri’s career? He’s got so much potential, the way he moves, he- Yakov would laugh in his face for suggesting he turn coach. He’s too selfish, not smart enough. He only has a little longer left to compete. It would be a mistake.

Yuri is an incredible skater with the most refined sense of movement. His only weakness is his technical score. There must be someone else out there that could take him to the next level. Just because Victor is a good athlete, doesn’t mean he would make a good coach. He’s better off without the guilt of failing to live up to Yuri’s hopes. He can’t let him down, not when he has so much potential.

Victor heads back to the safety of his bed, climbing in with the vodka bottle still in his hand. Why has Yuri’s offer taken him aback like this? He has fans asking him to marry them every day. They aren’t serious, though. They don’t know him. Neither does Yuri. But then, why does this feel so different? So serious? It’s not just the way Yuri moved, it can’t be-

He was a natural on that dance pole. Every instruction Chris gave, he followed perfectly. He looked like a creature from another universe, all fair skin, dark hair and lean muscle. Victor was jealous of Chris from the moment Yuri had hopped up onto that pole with him. Could Victor guide that raw power, that _eros_ to the most incredible performance of his career? He pictures an ice skating rink somewhere in Japan- where was it? Haketsu? Hasetsu! He swallows another mouth of vodka before abandoning the bottle and looking for his phone. He has to look it up before he forgets.

As he types, he pictures Yuri skating. He pictures himself standing by the barrier of the rink, instructing him. In his vision, Yuri is concentrating, his face scrunched up as he executes a perfect quad flip. Victor smiles down at his phone. The only hot springs in Hasetsu is called Yu-topia.

“Found you,” he murmurs.

\--

Yakov has decided it’s best for Victor to focus on the European Championships rather than compete in the MNNT Cup. Part of him wants to go, just in case Yuri is there as well, but Yakov knows best. Instead, he spends the rest of his December training and keeping to himself. He’s thought about Yuri every day since the GP Banquet. Any time his mind is idle, it strays to those bright brown eyes looking up at him. That voice, slightly slurred, asking to be his coach. Those hips-

He didn’t mean it. Yuri doesn’t know Victor. He doesn’t care about Victor. He’s not tried to contact him and that’s that. Besides, Victor has to focus on his own career. He doesn’t have time to follow another skater around, coaching him. He can’t. It wasn’t a legitimate offer and even if it was, Victor will never be as good at anything else than he is at skating. It will never happen. He can’t get obsessed with Yuri Katsuki.

Or, that’s what he tells himself as he opens his laptop, sitting on his sofa with Makkachin to watch the Japanese National Figure Skating Championships. It’s important to know who you’re competing against and Japan is a major player in figure skating. The Japanese Championships don’t _just_ feature Yuri Katsuki, there are plenty of other upcoming skaters Victor needs to watch. And if he has a notepad and pen with him, that’s completely by chance too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t speak Russian so if any of Yurio’s ranting is wrong, let me know.


	6. Chapter 6

“That Short Program- definitely not your best, Vitya.”

“I know.” They keep their voices down so that even the Russian speakers watching the broadcast won’t be able to hear them.

“It was missing something. What were you thinking during that spin? You looked like the ice had turned to concrete under your skates. Did you wobble a little? No one else saw that, but I did. Are your feet alright? Maybe I pushed you too hard last week. And then, when you went into that second combination, I was sure you-”

_“The Short Program score for Victor Nikiforov of Russia is 90.20. He is currently in second place.”_

The audience gasps. Victor clenches his jaw and leans over to hug Yakov, eyes shut tight. He was expecting lower. He was ready for lower. Shouldn’t he feel relieved? He hasn’t been this distracted during a competition performance since- when? Has he _ever_ been this distracted? Normally, his mind clears and he can just move, not today. He felt wrong from the moment he stepped out onto the ice during warm-up’s. He thought he could shake it off. He thought he’d skate flawlessly like he always does. He thought Yuri would be here.

“Well,” Yakov’s voice is strangely kind. Is he taking pity? “You can’t be perfect every day.”

It should break him. He should be sniffing, tears welling in his eyes, but he just feels numb. What is he supposed to feel when he isn’t winning? Has he forgotten how to feel disappointment? Perhaps he doesn’t care anymore.

“I know,” he murmurs, and they separate. Victor picks up the stuffed poodle toy and his flowers. He turns to the cameras and smiles brightly, feeling the lie lift his mood, even _he_ believes his own bullshit. He waves and heads out of the kiss and cry.

As soon as he’s away from the press, his thoughts stray back to Yuri Katsuki. Victor was so sure he’d be here. Not to compete, only European competitors are eligible, but to find Victor. Talk. He’s been daydreaming about it for weeks. He thought maybe, without a haze of alcohol between them, they’d be able to talk properly about coaching. Victor overheard one of the younger skaters saying Yuri might be retiring, but that makes no sense. Why would he ask Victor to coach him if he was retiring?

He steps down the hallway, eyes on the linoleum floor. Why does he care so much that Yuri never contacted him, anyway? Seeing him again would prove nothing. He guessed at the time that Yuri wasn’t serious. And yet, here Victor is carrying around notebooks filled with training ideas and letting Yuri affect his performance. His career. It’s inconvenient; it’s not fair.

\--

It’s nearly impossible to get a hotel room completely dark; there’s always the glow of an alarm clock or a microwave display or the lights of the city seeping in through thin curtains. It’s never silent either. Victor can hear the quiet hum of the filtered air cycle set to the perfect temperature. Sometimes this is a relief; it’s a space of his own that he can hide in. Usually, he’s so exhausted from competing and interviewing, he’ll have a bath and luxuriate in it. Not tonight. Tonight, it’s as though the walls are caving in around him.

He stomps away from his bed, wanting to break something. He wants something, someone aside from himself to shatter this near-silence. When the competitions end, they all just leave him like this; he’s alone and unimportant. He isn’t anyone when he’s off the ice. Just another fit twenty-something with a charming smile. Meaningless. The air filter hums quietly.

He heads to the balcony doors and pushes them open, stepping out into the icy evening. His hair shifts in the breeze and the lights of the city twinkle below. All those people, those families getting on with their lives while he stands here alone. All the skating fans living in this city, they only care about him because of what he can do on the ice. Take that away, and it will go soon enough, and he’s nothing to them. He puts his fingers to his chin as he looks at the lights in the windows, trying to pick out details from their world.

Everyone thinks he’s tucked into bed right now. Sleeping, just as instructed like a powered-down dancing robot. Perhaps he should go for a walk, no one would have to know. He could be a part of this living, breathing city. No one would look twice at him if he wore a coat and hat. It’s too late to invite anyone else, but it would be nice to go by himself. He shouldn’t. He has his Free Program tomorrow. He needs- no. He needs to get the _hell_ out of this hotel room.

Victor heads back inside, leaving the doors open. He picks up his phone and types out a quick text to the only other person he can think of who might be up at this hour.

_Are you still awake?_

He should just go to bed. Do what everyone thinks he’s doing and fall asleep. He scrolls over to his photo album and flicks through the GP Banquet photos. He’s got a copy of Mila’s shots as well as his own, now. He must have looked at them a hundred times, he’s memorised every detail. They look so happy here, why did he never call? Of course it was going to end like this, Yuri doesn’t know him. Never will. He frowns.

_Yes. Room 814._

That’s just down the corridor. He quirks his lips, considering his options. What else is he going to do? Stare at his phone until he finally falls asleep? Again? He picks out a bottle of wine from his suitcase and leaves, taking his room key and phone with him.

The corridor is almost dark and almost silent just like his room. He pads across the carpet, careful to keep quiet. If anyone sees the naked Russian skater with his bottle of wine, they don’t make a sound either. It’s like he was never here. He reaches room 814 and raps gently at the door.

He’s expecting him.

“Victor,” Chris purrs, stepping aside to let him in. “You’ve brought me gifts.”

Victor smiles and shrugs, stepping inside and offering Chris the bottle of wine. He already feels better. The sound of Chris’s familiar accent drowns out the air vents, and the city lights. “Well, you won our bet in Sochi,” says Victor. “I am here for one last time, just like you said. No strings, no romance, just sex.”

Chris’s lips twitch as he takes the offered bottle. “This is about the only thing that could beat scoring higher than you in the Short Program, you know,” he says. He looks different. Bathrobe and glasses instead of skates and lycra. When the last time they spent time together like this? Away from the ice.

“Pour me a glass, won’t you?”

“Sore loser,” Chris chuckles, heading to his minibar. It’s identical to Victor’s, with a bench that’s just too high to comfortably perch against. Horrible.

“I am not. Your score was well-deserved,” says Victor. “You’re in great condition.”

“Thank you. But, what happened with you?” Chris opens the bottle and pours them each a glass. “You were missing that- sparkle.”

“Do you think so?”

“Yes, something has changed with you.”

Victor feels his lips twitch. “I can’t be perfect all the time.” Even Yakov had said so. That will have to be enough for Chris. There’s no way he’s telling him about Yuri. Chris would laugh at the mere suggestion that the mighty Victor Nikiforov was brought down by some stupid hope.

“That’s true,” teases Chris. “I might even win tomorrow.”

“You might.”

Chris hands him a glass. “To competition. Santé.”

“Santé.”

Victor clinks his glass against Chris’s and takes a long mouthful. They stand, each waiting for the other to talk.

Chris caves first. “You haven’t come to my room like this in a very long time, why tonight?” he asks.

“I couldn’t sleep,” allows Victor. “Besides, I did make a promise at the banquet.”

“I was half-joking! I would have thought you’d forgotten about that by now-”

“I didn’t.” Victor swallows down more of the wine, barely tasting it. “When I make a promise, I mean it.” Unlike some people.

“Is something the matter?” Chris sets his glass aside. His eyes are kind.

Victor clenches his jaw. “No.” This isn’t why he’s here. This isn’t what he needs. Talking about feelings will leave him exposed and he has to win tomorrow. “Well,” he amends, “nothing sex with you won’t fix.” Chris knows how to take him apart and put him back together again. Chris can rebuild him so he’s like a new person. He’s the only one who knows how. Victor can’t stay like this. He barely knows who this new version of himself is.

Chris furrows his brow for a moment. Victor holds his gaze, resting a hand on his hip. He glances downward and Chris’s eyes fall as well, tracking the motion. Pale naked skin and lean muscle. Victor knows he can’t resist him when he’s offered to him like this. They were going to fuck from the moment Victor sent him that text.

“In that case,” Chris swallows, stepping towards him, his gaze sliding back up to Victor’s lips.

He’s close enough Victor can feel the warmth of his skin radiating off him. Almost taste the arousal in the air. Victor reaches for the belt of Chris’s bathrobe and pulls. The robe falls open. He’s always been stunning, tightly muscled, tanned and smooth. This season’s training has made him even more perfect. Chris shrugs out of the robe. It falls onto the carpet with a soft thud.

He reaches up to slide a hand along Victor’s jaw, his green eyes intense. Does Chris look at all his lovers like this? As though he might find all the answers to life’s questions in their eyes? His touch is too gentle. It’s not enough.

Victor surges forward, gripping him by the arms and pressing his lips, hard, against Chris’s. Chris returns the kiss, sliding his own hands down Victor’s back to grab at his ass. Victor groans, stepping closer so his chest is pressed against Chris’s. His hair falls over his closed eyes. The frame of Chris’s glasses digs into his cheek.

It’s still not enough. He feels restless with it. He needs someone, Chris. Closer and roughter. He wraps an arm around his neck, pressing him in against his lips, pulling every part of him in closer. Chris grips his ass harder, it almost hurts.

Is this what Chris wants? All the teasing and flirting this year- does he want to get back together with Victor? They didn’t work last time, and they won’t work now. It doesn’t matter. It just has to work tonight. Victor angles his head, feeling the roughness of Chris’s tongue against his own. He pulls back.

“You said you wanted to fuck me,” he murmurs, “one last time.” He slides a hand down around his waist and pulls him in tight again.

Chris’s glasses are askew, his hair is already wrecked. “Bed,” he gasps between one huffed breath and another.

Victor releases him roughly and turns to pick up his glass of wine. He takes a sip and sighs, running a hand through his hair. He’s completely steady, this isn’t good enough. He needs something more, he needs- “Go get comfortable,” he says. “I want to watch you first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christophe Giacometti, I have no idea how you did it, but you’ve wormed your way into my heart. Everything about you is so extreme and I just can’t. This isn’t just going to become a Victor/Chris fic (I’m following canon after all), but this is now 100% my headcanon for what happened at the European Championships. Send help.


	7. Chapter 7

Victor sneezes and wakes up, squinting against the bright sunlight splaying across the rumpled sheets. There’s a phone buzzing on the bedside table.

“Chris? Your phone-” Still groggy, Victor lifts his head and looks around. The room is too quiet. Chris isn’t here. Then, oh- he reaches for the phone.

“Hello?” His voice is slurred, still sleep-drunk and soft.

“Victor if you’re not here in _five minutes_ I’m going out there and telling the judges you won’t be competing today. DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT TIME IT IS?”

“Yakov?” Victor blinks, sitting up slowly. His mouth is dry and he’s still covered in-

“Who were you expecting?” demands Yakov. “Makkachin?! Where the hell are you!”

“I’m-” Victor looks around Chris’s silent hotel room. “At the hotel. I slept in.”

“THE HOTEL!? Do expect me to believe that? I already checked your room!”

“I didn’t sleep in my room.”

“VICTOR!”

Victor grins, ducking his head. “Send a taxi, I’ll put some clothes on.” He hops out of bed, grabbing his room key and stealing a towel to cover himself with on his way out of the room. “I’ll be in the lobby in five minutes. Hello!” He waves at the scandalised woman in the corridor as he hurries back to his own room, hanging up on Yakov and cutting the stream of terrifying threats off. He’s lucky the vibration of his phone woke him up, otherwise who knows how long he would have slept in.

He closes his door and hurries into the bathroom, dropping his towel and phone on the way. He hops into the shower and runs the water as hot as he can stand, scrubbing hard at his chest and stomach. He’s feeling good today. Fresh. Perhaps the night with Chris got this, whatever it was, out of his system. He’ll perform his Free Program, catch up on points and take another gold. Everyone will forget about this inconvenient loss of focus yesterday.

He has to stop expecting other people to follow through when they say things. Yuri Katsuki had never been serious about the coach offer. Besides, Victor is better off skating and finishing up his career with a few more wins before he thinks about what comes next. It’s a bright, beautiful day. He’s going to win and nothing’s going to get him down.

Imagine if he’s here today, though. If, right before Victor takes to the ice, he looks up at the crowd and sees Yuri Katsuki there, smiling and excited. It could happen. Maybe he’s put away his hopes too early. Yuri has surprised him before, why not another time? He’ll definitely win the gold with Yuri watching.

Buoyed with hope, he almost prances out of the shower. He grabs a fresh towel, his clothes and his phone. He even makes it to the lobby before Yakov’s taxi arrives.

\--

“Once again, not your best,” murmurs Chris.

Victor steps off the ice, his hand on the barrier. He’s exhausted, shaky, his feet are screaming. Chris looks fresh, ready and waiting to perform his own Free Program. Victor clenches his jaw. He’s been so stupid.

“Hey,” Chris catches him by the arm before he can head for the kiss and cry. “Make sure you stay here to watch me. I’m feeling inspired.”

There’s excitement in those green eyes. They both know that this is Chris’s best chance yet. The gold is well within his grasp, all he needs to do is take it.

“Davai,” says Victor, quietly. He turns and walks away.

He looks up at the crowd. Stupid, isn’t it? He’s still looking for Yuri even though it’s clear he’s not here. Why would he be? Why would he fly halfway around the world just for Victor?

“Victor,” Yakov is subdued when they meet by the kiss and cry. He passes him his sweater, red and white. “That was better than yesterday but-”

“Please,” says Victor, taking the sweater and throwing it on. “Not now, I can’t.”

For once, Yakov complies. They sit down at the kiss and cry in silence. Victor’s performance hadn’t felt right. The technical points had all been there, but the expression was wrong. Instead of feeling Marco’s story of heartbreak, he’d been distracted, looking up at the crowd, trying to spot Yuri. Then, once it was clear he wasn’t here, he’d just felt anger and disappointment. He’d lashed out on the ice, kicking his spins and jumps so roughly he’s surprised he didn’t hurt himself. His speed must have been incredible, but that’s not what the routine is meant to be about. It’s loneliness, not anger. Heartbreak, not hope.

From his spot on the bench, Victor watches Chris glide out onto the ice. There’s a confidence to his movements that Victor’s never seen before. He’s taller, perhaps? It’s different. He narrows his eyes.

_“The Free Program score for Victor Nikiforov of Russia is 193.05, giving him a total score of 283.25. He is currently in first place.”_

The crowd gasps and claps. Victor smiles and waves for the cameras, muscle memory. He’s still numb underneath his bright expression. He wasn’t expecting his score to be so high. Perhaps they were impressed with his speed even though it didn’t match his theme. 193.05 is-

“It’s still a good score, Vitya,” murmurs Yakov. “Chris might not catch you.”

“Look at him,” Victor nods towards Chris. He’s standing, ready to begin. Even the way his hips are positioned bleeds confidence, readiness. “Do you see that?”

“Hmm.”

There’s something there, Yakov can see it too. This is going to be different to anything they’ve seen before. “Come,” Victor takes Yakov by the hand and leads him away from the cameras. Instead of heading back to the dressing rooms, he leads Yakov back to the barriers.

“Vitya, we can watch out the back-”

“I told Chris I’d stay.”

Yakov lets out another _hmm_ and fixes him with a beady glare. He’s going to get an earful once they’re back in private.

Victor focuses his attention back on Chris just as the music starts. The theme is familiar now; Victor’s been watching Chris do this Free Program all season. It’s sleazy and erotic, rolled together with technical precision. Chris stands, back straight, chest broad and strong, waiting for the right moment.

One, two three- now. His green eyes flutter shut as he moves, arms out, sliding across the ice.

_His green eyes flutter shut as Victor slides a hand over his hip bone and along his cock, gripping and twisting at the silky head before sliding onwards, down his thigh._

Chris drops his stance, stepping into a lunge. His fingertips trail across the ice, briefly. He turns, standing again, and doubles back. His eyes are downcast, cheeks flushed.

_Chris’s cheeks are flushed, Victor can see it through the veil of his hair. Victor lowers his head again and nuzzles at his erection, careful to keep his lips soft. He pulls back just as Chris rocks his hips forward._

_“Please,” Chris murmurs._

He twists, slides and flies into the air with a perfect quad lutz, his signature move. He lands and crouches into a sit-spin. His hair ruffles as he moves faster, stretching his arms above his head.

_He reaches up and grips at the bedframe above his head, digging his heels into the small of Victor’s back. Victor lets him back into his mouth and then out again, slowly, his tongue slides back and forth across the underside of his cock. He tastes of sweat and desire._

_“More,” Chris gasps._

_Victor doesn’t give him more. He slides his way back up to his lips, kissing him roughly so he can taste it too._

This wasn’t what Victor was expecting. He thought there’d be confidence, maybe arrogance; he didn’t expect to see their night replayed on the ice for everyone to see. It’s- well. Incredible. He doesn’t dare look over at Yakov. He keeps his eyes fixed on Chris, touching the side of his forefinger to his lower lip.

Chris steps out of the spin and glides, spread eagle, all long limbs and control. He jumps again, a quad salchow. He keeps his arms in tight as his lean body twists in the air.

_He twists and pushes Victor down onto his back. Chris is heavy against his chest as he bites roughly at his lip. His stubble scrapes against Victor’s jaw and his fingernails scratch their way up his sides leaving tiny rivers of pain in their wake. Victor shivers._

He lands, the momentum sending him back near the far barriers. He slides a hand down his body, rolling his hips.

_Chris rolls his hips against Victor. There isn’t enough lubrication, just sweat and spit, but it still feels intoxicating. Victor lets out a gasp, gripping at his shoulders. He rolls his own hips in time with the next one. Yes._

He slides across the ice, his arms out. Stepping neatly so he glides and turns close to the barriers where the judges sit. He turns and leaps into a Russian split-jump. When he lands, he winks in Victor’s direction.

_He winks at Victor and reaches for the bag by his bed. Lubricant. With shaking fingers, he uncaps the bottle and spills some across his fingers. He reaches down and grips at Victor’s cock, sliding his palm, silky wet, down and up again. It’s torturously slow. He’s wound tight, his nerves humming like a freshly struck tuning fork. Chris hitches his hips back and slicks himself as well, his green eyes fixed on Victor’s._

Victor has to stop himself from smiling. It will look suspicious and Yakov will be on him about it in an instant. But Chris has done it. This is exactly the skater he’s always been and here it is for everyone to see. It’s so intimate that it’s making Victor blush. No one else knows; it’s fine. Inspiration comes from the strangest places. Chris helped guide Victor to his free program this year, and now Victor has returned the favour.

Chris kicks a leg out and twists, turning back around. He rests his hands on his knees, his back arches.

_He arches up into him, his hand reaching around to slide down between Victor’s ass cheeks. The lubricant has made everything glossy and smooth. Victor shifts his hips against Chris’s cock and fingertip. The delicious slide is so good he has to close his eyes, let his head fall back. It’s too much, he wants more._

Chris kicks his way up into a triple flip. He follows it with a triple toe loop; his form is immaculate. He’s not trying too hard, just skating how he feels. Has he showered since last night? Or is he competing with Victor’s sweat and semen underneath his costume. Victor shakes his head, closing his eyes for a moment. Does he want to know?

Chris makes a bracket turn, transitioning into his step sequence. He carves a serpentine pattern across the ice, long arcs to match his long limbs. He’s out of breath, Victor can see.

_He’s out of breath, pulling Victor’s knee up to get a better angle. He slides another finger inside him, gently before dropping his head to suck at his cock again. He draws him into his mouth and down to the back of his throat._

_Victor moans, gripping at the sheets and trying not to thrust too hard into Chris’s throat. His tongue slides across his cock, fingers rocking gently against his prostate. He’s seeing stars._

_“Please,” he gasps. “Chris, please. I need you.”_

Chris steps into a hydroblade, his fingers caressing the ice as he slides from one end of the rink to the other. He holds the pose with perfect form until he reaches the barriers, straightening and pulling his fingertips away. A triple flip. He turns and pauses as the music lulls, his eyes intense.

_His eyes are intense as he pushes Victor’s hips down and crawls over him again._

_“Why? Why do you need me?” he breathes._

_Victor pulls him close, an arm around his neck and kisses him. The warmth of Chris’s lean body is the only thing that matters. The rest of the world could be gone, and he’d still be reaching down and gripping at his cock._

_“Блядь_ _\- Fuck. Please. I just do, okay? I need you.”_

Chris jumps again, a toe loop. He’s never left his final jump this late in the program, he must be exhausted. He lands it and steps out long and smooth across the ice.

_His thrusts are long and smooth, torturous. Victor needs more, needs it rougher. His fingertips scramble at Chris’s hips desperately, and Chris gets the hint. Adjusting his angle, he drives in hard and fast. It’s like he’s being hollowed out. Victor lets his head fall back and nearly screams._

Chris transitions into his last spin of his program. His cheeks are flushed, eyes heavy. He grabs onto his boot and spins faster and faster.

_Chris seems to thrust faster and faster as he loses focus. His hand is gripping too hard at Victor’s thigh, he’s already shaking. He shouts, his body a tense bow as his orgasm rips through him._

It’s over. He’s on his knees, sweaty, satisfied and out of breath.

The music ends and all Victor can hear is the din of the audience screaming. He smiles and applauds politely. He was right. That performance was unlike anything they’ve ever seen before. Perfection.

“So, Vitya?” Yakov looks over at him. “Whose hotel room did you spend last night in? Or do I not want to know.”

Victor presses his lips together and looks back out at Chris, still out of breath on the ice. There’s no way he and Yakov are winning this competition. Not after that.


	8. Chapter 8

He wins anyway.

“So, I suppose we’re even now,” Chris murmurs, lifting his silver medal and smiling for the cameras, “are you extra mad at me?”

“No,” Victor says, out of the corner of his mouth so no one will notice. “It didn’t change anything, did it. And there’s still the Worlds in March.”

“Not about the competition, about-”

“Shh.” Who knows how many skating fans can read lips. The bronze medallist, Emil Nekola, is looking at them strangely. “Really Chris, its fine.”

Chris used him for his performance; it’s obvious. He snuck that dance pole into the GP Banquet knowing that Victor would jump at the chance to make a bet about it. He satisfied his terms of the bet knowing Victor would never go back on his word. He slept with Victor and it sparked something in his routine and he nearly won. Victor still doesn’t understand how Chris’s score was lower than his own, perhaps it really is only he, Yakov and one or two of the other skaters that can tell he’s not skating at his best. Chris had been so close. His method was unconventional, sure, but it was also pretty impressive. Victor isn’t angry.

In a way, he was using Chris too. Victor holds his gold medal up a little higher, would the silver have felt lighter than this? He’d felt off after the Short Program and he’d sought Chris out to fuck the- whatever that strangeness was, out of him. It had worked too, sort of. Today had been a bit better, or so Yakov thought, and he never lied. He'd been good enough to fool the judges, at least.

Victor smiles, looking up at the camera flashes in the crowd. It’s like they’re one mass, sparkling like moonlight on the ocean. He sighs, he needs to stop looking at the crowd, waiting for something magical to happen. There’s nothing there for him.

“I’m supposed to be getting a new choreographer for next season, Josef’s orders. Maybe that will give me what I need to beat you once and for all,” murmurs Chris.

“That’s up to you. Your process is your own.” Victor hasn’t let anyone in on his creative process, except Yakov, for years. He hates those routines he sees which have no relation to the skater’s heart. Confected stories invented by some choreographer that only knows your last name. Chris would never let that happen.

“He’s cute. Could be interesting.”

Victor’s lips twitch. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s do a loop around and greet all your fans.”

As the three of them do their lap, Victor smiles wide and accepts his gifts. Much of the audience is here for Chris tonight; he seduced all of them with his free program. If only they knew that he’d really been dancing for Victor. The best routines are like that, though; they’re personal. That’s why Victor’s own routine never felt as good. He’s using a proxy, the character of Marco, and assuming those emotions as his own. He’s close to getting it perfect, but it will never _truly_ be perfect, not when the story isn’t about him. Next year he’ll have to step it up. He’s going to have to look inside himself and find a new facet, a new emotion that he can harness, like Chris has today. Otherwise, he might end up losing the gold for real. It will need to surprise an audience that is used to being surprised by him and is expecting everything. He’ll have to approach the new season like a new beginning.

\--

Victor reaches over the barrier at the edge of the rink and yanks at the chord of the CD player. The sound cuts out, the last tremoring note of Italian opera haunting the air around him. He can’t do it. He can’t listen to this fucking song any more. Every note sticks to him like sweaty lycra, buzzing in his ears. It’s like the soundtrack to whole year playing over in his head, the Russian Nationals, the GPF heats, the Grand Prix Final, the banquet- why does _everything_ lead his mind back to Yuri Katsuki? It’s too much. He can’t keep training to this music. He only has to compete with this routine one more time, who cares if it’s a little rusty? Surely he should be focusing on next season. On finding a new side of himself and putting together a program for that. Not replaying this hell over and over again.

“Hey, I was enjoying that!” shouts Yakov from across the rink.

“You’re such a liar,” says Yuri Plisetsky, lifting his water bottle. It’s just the three of them this afternoon. Yakov has taken a bigger interest in the little punk since his Grand Final win. Victor has kept mostly out of their way. Yuri seems angry all the time; it’s distracting.

“You don’t like my song?” asks Victor, grinning.

By this stage in the season, they’re all sick to death of the music from their programmes. Victor will be happy if he never hears _Stay Close to Me_ ever again. Every note of the song seems to tighten his muscles. He feels tense even thinking about it.

“Put it back on. You need to practice; your free leg’s looking sloppy,” snaps Yakov.

Yakov’s right, but- “Not now,” he says. He can’t stand any more.

“Why not?” Yakov asks, quieter, hands on the barrier. His eyes are worried. He’s been looking at Victor like that for the last couple of weeks. He can tell something’s happened. Perhaps he’s not sure what, yet. Even Victor isn’t sure. It all feels wrong. It’s like his romance with the ice has turned sour. What if he never recovers from this? What if this is it, the end of his career?

“Because it’s _boring!_ ” Victor lies, skating back out across the ice. “The audience is tired of me. How am I supposed to surprise them when it’s the same thing over and over again? I’ve been dancing this program all year. If it’s not perfect by now, it never will be.” His skate carves into the ice, hard, as he turns and stops.

“Vitya, it _was_ perfect at the Grand Prix final. Since then-” Yakov gestures over the barriers, a vague twist of his fingers in Victor’s direction. He’s right, that’s the worst part. Victor feels his hopes deflate. Perhaps this _is_ the end. Victor Nikiforov’s glittering career falling apart at the feet of a tipsy Japanese skater who never called. No one will ever believe it.

The little punk is watching them, eyes grave behind that blonde mop he calls hair. It would be better if he wasn’t here, then Victor could be more- more himself with Yakov. He’s tired of being the winner all the time, he’s not strong enough.

 “You can’t change programs two-thirds of the way through the season,” says Yakov. He sighs, it’s a tired, grandfatherly sound. He doesn’t know what to do with Victor. Victor doesn’t know what to do with himself either. “Why don’t you take the afternoon off- Clear your head.”

Send him home. Is that the solution? Give up and get off the ice? Victor glances across at Yuri. He’s abandoned his water and he’s staring, one skinny elbow hooked over the barrier of the rink.

Victor bites his lip. He can’t run. Not in front of the kid.

“I might just-” he shrugs, kicking off into a slow glide across to his side of the rink. “Do some fundamentals for a while.”

“Do what you like,” says Yakov. Victor can tell he’s pleased he didn’t run, at least.

He glides across to the far barrier and then back around again. It feels blissfully quiet without the music, like a weight has been lifted off of him. He skates in aimless circles for a while, keeping his mind blank. Once he’s calm, he kicks out into a double axel, nice and easy. The cold air from the ice ruffles at his hair. This is what he needs, space. He’s always been strongest on his own. Perhaps he’ll never love anyone; there’s nothing wrong with that.

He lands with a click and steps into a lunge. He twists his arms so his wrists and elbows are facing outwards and holds the pose. It looks striking, he can see it in his mind’s eye. There’s vulnerability there, exposing such tender skin to the whims of the crowd. Perhaps he was too guarded this year. Lots of tight movements, arms kept in close, safe. He needs to let himself feel scared. Maybe in life, too. He yearns for love, this- whatever it was, with Yuri Katsuki showed him that. He wanted so much for it to be real. Triple toe-loop. If he gave his heart to someone completely, it might shatter like glass into a thousand pieces. Does that mean he’ll never try?

He lands and turns, twisting his arms, his fingers, experimenting with angles. There’s something so freeing about these movements. He’s tried too hard to guard his heart from others. For years, standing at the top of the podium came first; there’s only room for one person there. In his mind’s eye, there’s a man, is it Yuri Katsuki? He catches him when he arches his back too far, when his arms aren’t held in tight and he over-rotates a jump. He holds him so tightly, sharp eyes and grinding hips, that Victor could never fall.

He’s sliding backwards, his back arched, hands held as if in prayer by his chin when he realises that this could be something. He twists, letting his arms fly out wide. They caress the air as he turns, back and forth like a bird’s wings. He can fly, held safe in Yuri’s arms. It’s simple, like the pure notes of a child’s song. He can feel the music, not yet composed, building around him. He steps out into a half-formed sequence, his back arched, arms flying. He moves in serpentine arcs across his half of the rink and jumps- a quad flip.

This routine feels too young for him. No one sees him as that innocent, pure skater with the flowing blonde hair any more. But he feels the emotion, the _agape_ so strongly his heart might burst with it. He pulls up at the far barriers, out of breath and smiling. He glances over his shoulder. Yakov is gone, but Yuri Plisetsky has been watching him.

He looks down at the ice as soon as he sees Victor looking his way. He turns and skates off in the opposite direction.

Victor shakes his head and huffs, resting his sweaty brow on the barrier. This could be it. A flying, free-limbed innocent program to see him into the new season. It would be real, based on his own experience. Unless-

He pushes himself back onto the ice. Perhaps he’s being too literal. Or not literal enough. Chris’s performance at the last competition was inspiring too. He had been seduced by Victor, but then turned that seduction back on itself and seduced the audience. 

Victor slides out onto the ice, driving his arms up, in, and down to his hips. He moves them again, around in a slight variation and pauses, turning his head so his hair whips across his brow. It feels right the moment he does it. If he looked in the mirror, he would see only Yuri Katsuki’s intent _eros_ -filled gaze staring back at him. Spanish guitar. Want wracks its way through his body as he steps out with a kick and a complicated step-and-twist. He wanted Yuri at the banquet, and he still wants him now, there’s no point pretending any more. He dreams of those eyes, those hips- and now so will the audience.

He lifts his arms and claps his hands above his head as he turns and doubles back. It’s passionate. Like the night at the GPF banquet, everything is sharp movements at a dizzying pace. He pulls the space around him in close with his arms, then pushes it away again, he can almost feel Yuri’s strong arms gripping at his waist. Yes. He wants to laugh, remembering how fun it was. Could he spend all of next season replaying these wild moments for the world? Would Yuri realise what he’s done? It doesn’t matter, right now it feels good.

He turns in a circle, running his hands down his torso, only just far enough away that there’s no contact. There’s more _want_ than Chris’s routine, more desire and less satisfaction. After all, Victor never got his ‘one night’. He jumps into a salchow. When he lands, he twists and slides his fingertips across the back of his neck, just shy of the skin. There’s no touching, no matter how much he wanted it. He steps into a one-legged spin, hands clasped behind his tailbone. He’s out of breath again. He can’t stop.

Yuri’s drunken dancing could have won every Grand Prix for the next ten years, the audience would never be able to look away. He steps out of the spin and turns, his arms and wrists out like before. He holds the pose with his back straight and strong this time. The Spanish dancer, wild and restrained at the same time. He slides and steps across the ice, breathing hard. It must have felt like this, for Yuri. Like he could take Victor, or anyone into his bed. He didn’t, though, and somehow that makes it even more erotic.

Victor pulls up at the barrier and grips onto it, his thighs are trembling and his feet ache. He shuts his eyes and takes several deep breaths. He hasn’t even done many jumps, he really is getting old.

Perhaps all he needed was a break from his old routines. Once he let it, that bolt of inspiration hit him like lighting. He’s never felt anything like it before. _Agape and Eros_. In a way, they are both about Yuri, just as Chris’s routine is about Victor. Or, about fucking him, at least. But which one should he develop? Which one should he perform next season? Which one would Yuri Katsuki prefer? Or Yakov- he looks over his shoulder, eyes moving across the room, but there’s no one there.


	9. Chapter 9

“Who let you in?” his cousin snaps. She’s in one of her moods again. It’s dusty in the practice room, rows of abandoned pianos make dark shapes in the dim light. At first, Victor thought no one was in here; the lights are off and only the weak winter rays of sun are sneaking their way between the small gaps in the curtains.

“Olga, you gave me a key last year,” he says, putting down two bags of groceries and tugging one of the curtains open. Dust motes spin in circles where he’s disturbed the air. She’s sitting at the piano furthest from the door, there’s crumpled up paper and empty food wrappers all around her feet. Her over-filled cigarette tray lies on top of the piano, ash spilling its way across the timber veneer.

“Oh.” Olga turns back to her piano, blonde bob whipping by her ears. “Why did I do that? It just means you’ll come back.” Her fingers are back on the keys.

“Because you love me and you want to compose for me,” Victor teases. “I know you do.”

“How are you so full of shit all the time?” She strikes the keys using all her fingers. The resultant sound is dark and discordant.

“Oll-gaa,” Victor draws it out, enjoying the scowl it elicits from her. He grabs a piano stool from the next instrument along and sits down to her right. He taps lightly on the F sharp, just out of her reach.

“Victor,” she sighs. “You want more music from me? I gave you another composer to work with.”

“And then you wrote the music _for_ him.”

Olga’s lips twitch. “I didn’t think you’d realised.”

Victor grins. A lucky guess. “Of course I did,” he lies. “I would never mistake your work for someone else’s.”

“Fine,” she sighs, turning to look at him with the full intensity of her mad, stormy eyes; electric blue, just like Victor’s. She’s pleased he’s here, she’s just terrible at showing it.

Victor smiles and reaches for her, pulling her into a hug. “I’m sorry I haven’t visited you more, you know how the season can get.” They have a small family, it’s not too much effort. He hasn’t even tried this year.

“It’s alright,” she huffs, her voice muffled by his shoulder. “I was going to come past the rink and see you too but-” she pulls back and gestures to the pianos. “I couldn’t.”

“Then we’re both awful, yes?”

She chuckles. “I suppose this can be your birthday present. New music for a new season.”

Victor smiles. “You’ll do it?”

She nods and places her fingers back onto the keys. Before he can stop her, she’s playing _Stay Close to Me_. “I liked this one.”

Victor bites his lip, ready for the inevitable tightening of his shoulders, but it doesn’t come. He huffs, listening as Olga’s long slender fingers play a muted version of the well-known music. It’s not so bad when it’s just the two of them, surrounded by darkness. “I liked it too,” he says. Now all he needs is to squeeze a skating rink and several thousand audience members in here and everything will be fine again.

“What were you thinking? For your short program.”

“I have two-” he hesitates, “ideas. I thought it would be a good idea to speak with you before I developed them more.” He’s fought not to skate and skate and _skate_ over the past few days, the itch has been maddening. Inspired, it’s all he wants to do, but there’s no point before he has music to work with.

“Go on, we can choose the least-worst of the two,” says Olga. She smiles as she plays on. “Let me guess, punk? Drum and bass? Japanese kabuki theatre?”

Victor _does_ stiffen at that. “No, I just have two variations on one theme.”

“And what’s the theme?”

“Love-”

Olga stops playing and laughs. It’s a tinkling, cackle that Victor hasn’t heard since they were kids. “Love? You? I suppose I’ve seen you pull off stranger things.” She glances over at him again and stills. “Hang on,” she says, “what’s happened?”

“It’s-” Victor shakes his head. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

She turns back to the piano and continues playing from where she left off. “How am I supposed to write something for you if you won’t tell me?”

“Hmm,” Victor doesn’t answer, he just sits and listens to her play the familiar notes again. It sounds completely different on piano, unmistakeably her arrangement of the original. How had he not noticed until now? He’s been competing to this music all year.

She doesn’t push him to answer, she just keeps playing. Perhaps she likes having him there, it’s rare for her to play for anyone that isn’t a student or a producer. She doesn’t _do_ performances, hasn’t since her final piano exams. In that way, she and Victor are completely different. Victor can’t imagine living without his audience, without eyes on him as he jumps and spins across the ice. Though, at the European Championships, even the thousands of people in the crowd weren’t enough. There was one pair of eyes missing-

“I met someone,” he says, interrupting his own thoughts.

“I see.”

“He’s-” Victor swallows. What words can he use to describe Yuri Katsuki? “He’s a skater, like me. We met at a party and-”

“He broke your heart,” says Olga. “You think you can use that.”

“I know I can.”

“Are you sure? What did he do?”

“Seduced me and ran,” admits Victor, with a chuckle.

“How. Paint me a picture.” Olga keeps playing.

Victor does. He starts at the beginning, telling her about Chris and the dancer pole and the bet. How Yuri drank too much champagne and then surprised them all by dancing, challenging the other Yuri to a dance-off. How Victor couldn’t resist but to join in.

Olga finishes playing and pauses. “So,” she says. “How did he dance? What was he like?”

“Like I said, he was drunk and wild. He moved with passion, he reminded me of a Spanish dancer. He was _Eros._ When he skates, he’s fast and technical but-”

Olga plays a trill on the piano.

“Yes,” says Victor after considering it for a moment, “but more fun than that. We laughed a lot.”

She changes the trill to a different key. It makes Victor smile.

“Go on,” she prompts. “What else?”

“He pulled me close, but not close enough. He had this sharp look in his eyes, but he was beautiful too. More-

Olga interrupts him with a stream of notes so perfect it almost makes Victor’s heart stop.

“Amazing,” he breathes. “Do you need to write that down?”

“ _Please_ ,” says Olga, gesturing flippantly at the air beside her face. “But- hmm. I don’t understand.”

Victor sighs, Yuri’s flushed face clear in his memory. “I don’t either.”

“No, I mean-” she keeps her eyes on the keys, brow furrowed. “Beautiful people throw themselves at you all the time. Why this one?”

“He- asked me to be his coach,” that’s when it changed for Victor. _Be my coach_ ; three words that brought his perfect performances to a screaming halt. Flipped everything around and now Victor can’t get it to fit back together again.

“His coach?”

“Stupid, isn’t it?”

“No,” Olga shakes her head. “You’re clever, you’re patient – you’d make an excellent coach.”

He was expecting her to laugh. To tell him he was too selfish, too much of an attention seeker to ever be anyone’s coach. That’s what Yakov thinks. She’d never lie, she means it. The shock numbs him for a moment. If Olga doesn’t think it’s a mad idea – perhaps it’s not. But it doesn’t matter, does it. Yuri had never meant it.

“He didn’t want you for what you look like or what you can do on the ice,” says Olga, her fingers on the keys once again. She hesitates. “He wanted you because of the way you think, who you are. That’s what’s thrown you, it’s never happened before.” She says it like it’s a fact.

“Never.” Victor’s voice is quiet, vulnerable. Tears sting at his eyes, he wipes at them viciously, not daring to look over at his cousin. It isn’t fair.

“Victor,” she says. She doesn’t reach for him, if she did he’d be crying for real. She just lets him take a breath and stare up at the ceiling for a bit, willing the tears to stop.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m-” he stops himself from saying _fine_. He isn’t. “I don’t understand it.”

“You want something from him?”

“Nothing. Just- talk to him. I don’t know.”

They sit in silence for a while and Victor tries not to let his mind spin in the same pathetic circles it has been for the past two weeks. He has no idea what Olga is thinking. She sits with her fingers on the keys.

They must look ridiculous. Her, poised, ready to play, and him, a wreck on the stool beside her.

She plays.

The music is quiet, mournful. There isn’t a lot there, just a few high, soft notes.

“What’s this?” asks Victor, “It’s beautiful”.

Olga ignores him and plays on. Her left hand joins her right. As she makes the transition, the depth of the music is suddenly there. Victor can almost hear other notes, other accompaniments joining in. The tune will haunt him, he knows it. His heart hurts with the innocent yearning of it. He wants to skate to this, it’s perfect.

“This is your short program for next season,” says Olga, repeating the notes in a different key. The new key is slightly awkward, like a child reaching down every so often as they learn to walk. Partly crawling and not quite there yet. Like Victor’s heart. Olga rights the key, and the notes sweep upwards, hopeful and pure.

Victor grips the piano stool and huffs a laugh, looking down so his hair falls over his eyes. “It is,” he murmurs. “It’s _Agape_.”

\--

Aeroflot has never been a strict believer in punctuality, but this trip was ridiculous. They are over two hours late. Yakov and Mila are close to strangling one another and, at this stage, Victor would happily stand back and leave them to it. Though, that’s nothing new. He’s mostly kept to himself for the past few weeks, skating quietly and going over different ideas for the next season’s programs. Olga sent through the completed music, one song with two movements; Eros and Agape. Victor hasn’t played them for anyone yet. Of course, plenty of people have heard it in Olga’s circles but- he’s not ready to share just yet. They feel too personal.

“Mila, for the last time, no one has been touching your phone!” Yakov shouts.

“Then why is it covered in fingerprints!” she demands.

Victor walks quickly, stepping out ahead of them. One of the hostesses shoots him a smile. He grins back. The flight from Sheremetyevo to Haneda was almost ten hours, plus the flight from St Petersburg, plus the two they spent waiting for Aeroflot in Moscow. All Victor really wants to do is fall into bed in some nameless hotel room until the start of competition in two days.

At least they’re here. Victor steps out into the carpark and follows Yakov and the others as they make a beeline for the coach. The sun is out, and compared to St Petersburg, the Japanese air feels warm and fresh. This is the first time he’s been in Japan since his wild dance with Yuri at the GP Banquet. He’s not expecting him, though. It’s okay. He’s thought too much about him already, there’s no point having him take up any more space in his head. Besides, he won’t let the false hope of Yuri Katsuki hurt his enjoyment of Tokyo. He’s always loved it here; the food, the shopping, the fashion- everything.

Victor smiles and takes photos with everyone that asks as they move through the taxi stands. The others will wait, he’s always last. There are a few press photographers here, but not too many. The rest are probably too busy to wait two hours for the delayed Aeroflot flight; there are a lot of other skaters arriving today.

“Victor!” shouts one of the Japanese photographers in thickly accented English. “Are you ready for the competition?”

“I’m ready for anything!” he says, smiling brightly. He flicks his hair and winks at the camera just in case he wasn’t convincing enough. He slides his sunglasses on and heads for the bus.


	10. Chapter 10

Victor slides out onto the ice with a smile. Japan. The World Championships. This is it, the end of the season. The last time he has to compete to _Stay Close to Me_. He’s avoided listening to it since his visit with Olga but now- it’s time. It will be fine. He moves quickly, turning back and forth and gesturing dramatically as the audience cheers. He holds his arms out wide and glides to the center of the rink feeling every inch a gold medallist. Even his skates are golden. The sound of the audience is everywhere, shouting and cheering. They want him to win. They want to see the best performance ever and Victor is going to give it to them. They will never forget tonight. He waves with both hands, smiles and moves into position.

The cheers give way to an anticipatory hush. Victor drops his chin and lets his mind fall blank.

The first few bars of the song grate at him like he knew they would. He looks up, arcs his hand over his brow and follows its momentum, turning. He curls his arms in close to his chest, his movements smooth and elegant. As beautiful as he can.

The memories come flooding back, like he’s reliving the year over in his mind again. The notes on Olga’s piano transforming into this piece. Him, at the beginning of the season, working out his costume with the design team. Practicing in St Petersburg with Yakov. Competing, winning gold. Winning the Grand Prix Final. Then, two earnest brown eyes staring up at him. _Be my coach_. It all flashes through his mind like lightning, ripping at his heart.

He glides out across the ice, his arms leading. He can feel the influence of _agape_ in his movements already. Yakov will ask him what’s changed.

_Sento una voce che piange lontano. (I hear a voice crying in the distance.)_

The voice crying in the distance might as well be his own. No one else is calling out. He is alone and no one else cares. Especially not Yuri, he’s probably never even heard this song before.

He lifts an arm and drops to one knee, turning back on himself, his arms flying. He always used to keep them in tight, this feels different. He continues, turning and sliding into position for his first quad.

_Anche tu, sei stato forse abbandonato? (Have you been abandoned as well?)_

A quadruple lutz. He lands smartly and neatly. 

Abandoned. He’s always surrounded by people and yet, he’s been wrestling with this strange wrongness inside his chest for weeks now. How could Yuri do this to him? One moment he was staring up at Victor, begging him and the next – nothing. Why? Why does Victor care so much?

He turns, spinning around, his arms out, elegant as the music swells and the crowd screams with delight.

_Orsù finisca presto questo calice di vino- (Come now, let’s quickly empty this glass of wine-)_

He flies into his quadruple flip. It happens with the barest mention of his mind, his body works without him even being conscious of it. He lands neatly again, his skate hitting the ice just so. He continues, turning and moving, ready for his next jump.

_e inizio a prepararmi. (I’ll start getting ready.)_

_Adesso fa’ silenzio. (Now be silent.)_

If only he and Yuri could steal away into the night together too. Quietly sneaking out under the watchful eyes of Yakov and the others. Just like in the song. That’s what he imagined would happen after the banquet. Victor can almost see the light in Yuri’s eyes as he steals a kiss while he pulls the hotel door closed. Regret cuts its way through him. That’s what should have happened and he’s the reason it didn’t.

_Con una spada vorrei tagliare- (I wish I could cut with a knife-)_

His spin is tight and technical, one leg in line with his body, a hand on his knee. The world flies around him as he kicks at the ice to maintain his momentum. His feet already ache. He ignores the pain and laces his fingers together behind his back, rolling his shoulders back until the muscles pull tight. Sweat prickles at his back underneath his costume.

_quelle gole che cantano d'amore. (those voices that sing of love.)_

_Vorrei serrare nel gelo le mani che- (I wish I could lock in the ice-)_

The anger and resentment of the lyrics thump their way through Victor’s heart. He feels the same. Fuck love and _fuck_ everyone who sings about how wonderful it’s supposed to be. Their words are a teasing mockery to him. They don’t know how much it can really hurt. How dare they sing so freely for something Victor wants, but can’t have. It hurts like ice scraping over his knees.

_scrivono quei versi d'ardente passione. (those hands that express verses of fiery passion.)_

He leaps into his flying sit-spin, one arm held high above him. He rights himself and stands, still turning, his arms held out. His face must be a mask of sadness. Loneliness. He reaches an arm up and turns back on it.

_Questa storia che senso non ha- (This story that makes no sense-)_

As he steps out across the ice again, he realises; the song had just been someone else’s story at the beginning of the season, but now it isn’t. Now it’s _his_ story as well as Marco’s. It’s not that he feels grief as though he is standing in Marco’s place, he is _actually_ in Marco’s place. This is his song too. The realisation sends a bolt of energy through him. He can use this.

_svanirà questa notte assieme alle stelle. (will vanish tonight along with the stars.)_

He turns, dancing across the ice, moving as if by memory. He lets himself feel everything he’s been too frightened to feel these last few months. His arms arc and fly as he twists and steps out the familiar routine. Only, it’s different now.

Vanishing along with the stars. Perhaps they were only meant to have one night together, like Marco and his lover. Perhaps they were never meant to have more than that. Every verse of the song feels heavy with meaning. The anguish and loss and fear all fight for their place at the forefront of his mind. How has he never let himself _feel_ this before? Would he have made it through the season if he had? This is why he’s struggled to practice with this music playing these last few weeks. What has Yuri done to him?

_Se potessi vederti- (If only I could see you-)_

He flies into a quad salchow, putting all his own broken hope into it. He lands heavily on his skate, crouching down low to dull the impact.

_dalla speranza nascerà l’eternità. (from hope, would be born eternity.)_

Perhaps they will see one another again, somewhere and it will all come flooding back. Perhaps Victor will be his coach after all. Prove Yakov wrong and show the whole world he’s more than just a skater with a pretty face. Or maybe it will be once they’ve both retired. Victor can surprise him at the hot springs and-

He glides across the ice and leaps up into his triple-double combination. His hair whips roughly across his eyes and the world spins around him as the song’s heart is revealed.

_Stammi vicino, non te ne andare. (Stay close to me, don’t go.)_

He’s never felt so alone, never. Why hadn’t Yuri stayed with him? Perhaps it’s always been like this. He’s been so focussed on competing, he’s neglected love. People have come and gone, but the crowd has been big enough Victor has never noticed. He’s been so wrapped up in himself that he’s never- Why did Yuri leave him too? If he saw something more to him then, why?

He moves in a serpentine pattern across the ice, his step sequence feels flawless, even with the extra twists and turns he and Yakov added late in the season. It’s never come together this well before. His heart soars and aches.

_Ho paura di perderti. (I’m terrified of losing you.)_

He’s terrified he _has_ lost Yuri already. He has, hasn’t he? He waited for Yuri to come to him, everyone always comes to him. He should have gone instead. He should have gotten up onto that pole, or said that yes, of course he would be his coach. He was too frightened. He wasn’t ready.

He glides on, feeling every note of the music in his heart.

_Le tue mani, le tue gambe, (Your hands, your legs,)_

_le mie mani, le mie gambe, (my hands, my legs,)_

_e i battiti del cuore, (our heartbeats,)_

_si fondono tra loro. (all blend together.)_

He spreads his arms wide and turns, stepping into a triple lutz. He’s struggling to hide how out of breath he is. He has to focus. All that’s in his mind is Yuri Katsuki. All he can think about is what might have been. He kicks into his triple flip and lands, perfect. His feet are still screaming. He’s almost there.

Gliding to the edge of the rink, he looks a stranger in the eyes. He arcs his palms around her face in smooth motions. The light isn’t right, he can’t see her expression. It doesn’t matter. He pretends she’s Yuri. He can feel the desperate loneliness in his gaze, even though he can’t see it. What is she thinking? Everything is so tangled inside his mind. Could he and Yuri ever be together? Why doesn’t he want him? He glides back, his arms outstretched to the stranger as though he’s fighting to leave her, beckoning her to stay with him. He glides backwards and turns, this is his last quad.

_Partiamo insieme. (Let’s leave together.)_

He kicks up into the quadruple toe-loop, spinning through the air, and lands. For a breathless instant everything goes quiet as he focuses on the transition. Then, he’s in the air again– a triple toe-loop. The world is wild with colour and sound all around him. When he’s back on the ice, the faintest smile tugs at his lips for just a moment. His score is going to be incredible.

He’d been scared, at the banquet. He’d wanted to say _yes_ to Yuri right away. Victor had lied to himself for years, inventing this myth that he didn’t need anyone. That he was better off alone. It’s not true, though. He knows that now. He hadn’t been ready to say yes, that night.

_Ora sono pronto. (Now. I’m ready.)_

He’s ready now.

He glides around in tight circles and moves the momentum into his combination spin. He kicks up off the ice and down again. Bending down, he grips at his right leg, stretching it forward. He releases, kicks up again and spins and spins and spins until the final notes of the song play their way to completion.

Arms folded, he stares up at the dark ceiling above as though it holds all the answers. He’s surrounded by screams and lights, yet all he can hear is his own ragged breath. He’s still alone, no matter how many people fill the crowd. His body gives out and he falls to his knees, tears stinging at his eyes. Finished. He’s shaking.

He’s ready now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's an incredible fanart of Victor finishing his free skate: https://mobile.twitter.com/KamabokoTr/status/817301128643637248/photo/1


	11. Chapter 11

The cameras flash wildly and Victor smiles, one arm around Chris’s shoulder and the other around the Kazakh bronze-medallist. He’s new, another young athlete ready to take a tilt at the gold. Perhaps this will be Victor’s last win. But perhaps not. He thinks this every year and yet, he’s the _five_ year consecutive winner now. He really needs to learn the bronze-medallist’s name. Oleg? Oriel? His memory is rubbish. 

The Kazakh shifts away slightly, perhaps he’s noticed Victor glancing over at him. “Congratulations on your win,” he murmurs in flawless Russian.

“Thank you,” says Victor, taken aback. He knows they speak Russian just as much as Kazakh in Kazakhstan, but he was expecting an accent. This is the first time he’s heard him speak.

Deciding their conversation is over, the Kazakh turns and rounds the table to take his seat for the press conference. Victor glances over at Chris.

“Shall we?” Chris asks in English, his eyes shining.

“After you.” Victor’s smile for Chris is genuine. He looks radiant. “What’s going on with you?” whispers Victor, as they round the table. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so happy to come second before.”

“Let’s just say,” Chris pauses, sliding his fingertip along the surface of the table as he steps over to his seat. “My new choreographer is agreeing with me.”

“Oh,” says Victor, confused. Then it hits him. “ _Oh._ ”

“Mm. Perhaps you should join us for a training session soon, yes?”

“We’ll see,” chuckles Victor.

He almost lost the European Championships to Chris, he’s not jumping into bed with him again anytime soon. Yakov would kill him.

The two of them sit side-by-side. Victor’s happy for Chris, of course. And he’s glad things have settled between them enough that they can close out the season on good terms. But really? Even Chris has found someone? It’s not fair.

He smiles automatically for the cameras as soon as they start flashing again.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the announcer says, “welcome to the Worlds Press Conference with our Senior Men’s medallists. In first place is Victor Nikiforov.”

Victor inclines his head to the polite applause.

“In second place is Christophe Giacometti and in third place, Otabek Altin.”

 _Otabek_. That’s his name. Otabek. He can’t forget it again.

“We’ll start with an opening statement from each of you, and then we’ll open it up to questions. Victor, go ahead.”

Victor smiles, folding his hands on the table, he’s done this so many times he barely needs to think. Really, he could just take last year’s press conference and recite it word for word. When did winning become so boring? “Thank you,” he says. “I’m truly excited to be here at this level again, sitting with Chris and Otabek.” His speech is dull, he’s not really excited to be here. He talks about the long road, the challenging up’s and downs, about Yakov’s advice, about rising to the top once again.

It’s only once Chris is nearly finished his own well-worn monologue that Victor realises he left out the part about being excited for next season. He frowns down at the microphone on the table. Is he excited for next season? He already has the music for his Short Program, so he must be.

What would he do instead? Fly to Hasetsu and find Yuri Katsuki? The rumours are that he’s ended things with his coach and gone home to regroup. Victor never gives rumours much weight. Though, he didn’t compete at the Four Continents or the Worlds so maybe he _is_ taking a break. Victor visiting Hasetsu is not such a crazy idea, now that he thinks of it. How is he going to perform next year without at least clearing the air? He can’t go on the way he is, it would drive him mad. Though, his new routine, _agape_ relies on a yearning that might vanish if he confronts Yuri. Should he risk next year’s titles on that? Would he still beat Chris and Otabek if he didn’t feel every note in his soul? Oh, and Yuri Plisetsky will be making his senior debut as well; the kid’s a machine. No, it’s better if this city, Tokyo, is the closest he gets to Hasetsu.

“Victor?” Victor jumps, realising one of the reporters is addressing him.

“Sorry,” he says. “The microphone- can you repeat the question, please?”

“What do you think the next season will hold for you?”

Victor touches the side of his finger to his chin and frowns. He has no idea.

\--

The springtime snow is falling thick on the ground in St Petersburg as Victor and Olga walk along the dark street. Victor is feeling better than he has in months, and it’s not just the heady mix of jetlag and vodka coursing its way through him. Every year once the World Championships are over, his family throws a party to celebrate his achievements. It started when he debuted in the Juniors and now, it’s like tradition. A Very Late Christmas, they’ve always called it. There’s something so refreshing about being with them, his mother and father, his grandmother, his aunt and uncle, his cousins, Lev, Dimitri, Olga – they all love him for who he is, not what he can do on the ice. They might be the only ones. He forgets, sometimes. It’s nice to be reminded.

“Did Babushka have you light a candle for St. John the Russian again?”

Victor huffs a laugh, the steam from his breath plays at his cheeks. “Yes. Just like every other year.” His grandmother is convinced that aeroplanes are still as dangerous as they were in the sixties. Whenever she gets the chance, she drags him into her room and has him light a candle in front of her icon of St. John. Then she admonishes him for not going to church. This year, she made him feel so bad, she was able to bully him into kissing all her little saint’s icons in their frames. Not that he minds too much, it’s worth it to see the smile on her face.

“That old bat is mad.”

“Madder than us, you mean?” Their grandmother had been a famous singer when she was younger. She’d travelled the world to perform just like Victor does, just like Olga could do if she wanted to.

Olga laughs, adjusting her grip on the plastic bags. Once again, Victor’s father made far too much food and insisted they take some home with them. Victor is carrying so much shashlik and borscht, he’s going to fill his entire freezer. Olga has even more.

“There’s been a flood of articles about you since your press conference in Japan yesterday.”

“Since when do you care about my skating?” asks Victor.

“Don’t flatter yourself, I have to get my information about you from somewhere. Babushka is _always_ asking what you’re up to. She’s driving me mad.”

Victor smiles.

“There are rumours you’ll be retiring,” Olga persists. “A lot more than usual.”

“Well, I am twenty-seven now.”

She fixes him with a stormy-eyed glare. “You know that’s not it. Why all the articles?”

“It’s my fault,” Victor sighs, Olga doesn’t speak English so the press conference would have been meaningless to her. “They asked me what I thought the next season held for me and I- hesitated? I didn’t know what to tell them.”

They round the corner, only a few blocks away from Olga’s apartment now.

“It’s that other skater still, isn’t it? You don’t know what to do.”

Victor bites his lip. There’s no point lying. “Yeah.”

“Victor,” she says, wearily. “You can’t let this go on. You have to speak to him.”

“But-” Victor stops walking. He drops his bags onto the icy footpath and turns to face her. “What if that breaks the spell? What if he’s- I don’t know, rude or boring or- What if my feelings change? That short program we wrote relies on me feeling this way.”

Olga drops her bags as well, wiping strands of blonde hair off her cheeks with gloved hands. “Then we write you a new program, Vitya. About a stupid athlete that fell in love with an idea instead of a person.”

Victor bites his lip and looks down. She has a point.

“Do you have any idea how stupid you sound? You can’t go on like this for a year, just for one Short Program. It’s not worth it. You can’t deny yourself a life just for your career. You can’t deny yourself the chance at love either. Nothing is worth that sacrifice.”

Victor sniffs, the icy air is making his nose run. His heart pounds as he picks up his bags and turns away. He can’t do this.

“Wait,” says Olga, reaching for his coat sleeve. “Okay. You have to make a choice, yes? You need to decide whether to speak to him or not.”

“Yes,” Victor puts his bags down again. Olga is as stubborn as he is, there’s no way he’s running from this conversation, no matter how much he wants to.

“Do you have a coin?”

Victor lifts an eyebrow. “A coin?” What’s she playing at?

“It won’t work with one of mine,” says Olga, gloved hands on her hips. In her thick white coat, she looks like an angry snow pixie. It makes Victor smile.

“Fine,” he says. He reaches into his own coat pocket and fumbles, producing a five ruble coin. He holds it out to Olga.

“Okay,” she says, “Toss it. If the eagle lands face-up, you stay in Russia and suffer for your art. If it doesn’t, you go to him and you talk.”

“I don’t think this is the best way for me to-”

“Just toss the fucking coin, Victor.”

He does. It arcs high, flipping over and over, then down again, landing silently in the snow. Both he and Olga step forward to peer down at it. The two-headed eagle stares up at them. The coin says he should stay here. Victor’s heart sinks with bitter disappointment.

“The other thing that’s good about the coin trick,” says Olga, resting a gloved hand on his shoulder, “is that when you get a result you don’t want to see, the path forward becomes obvious.”

“You think I should go to Japan? Find him?”

“No,” says Olga, smiling and picking up her bags. “You do. Now come on, it’s freezing and you have a flight to book.”

Victor shakes his head and grabs his bags again. Olga is mad; he can’t go to Japan. He glances over at the coin, still sitting in the snow. He leaves it there.

\--

It’s very late when Victor makes it home. He pulls off his wet coat and leans down to unlace his boots just as Makkachin bounds up and huffs warm dog-breath across his jaw.

“Makka, I missed you too.” He smiles, pausing to ruffle the dog’s ears. Victor never gets to spend much time with Makkachin during competition season because he’s always travelling. And now if he goes to Japan, they’ll be spending even more time apart.

Makkachin stares soulfully up at him, quirking the muscles above one eye, and then the other like he’s trying to say something.

Victor slides his hand back and forth under his jaw, letting the rough curls slide between his fingers. “It’s not fair to you, is it?” he murmurs. “Leaving you here with just that horrible dog walker. You hate her, don’t you?”

Makkachin actually adores Nika, but that’s beside the point. Makkachin wags his tail, eyes bright.

“Maybe I should just take you travelling with me.” Victor muses.

He stands, kicking off his unlaced boots. He’s travelled with Makkachin before. If he goes to Japan, why not take him along? He rifles through his pockets and pulls out his phone. The screen lughts up the dim apartment.

Makkachin whines, leaning against his shins.

“Yes, yes.” Victor chuckles, heading over to the sofa so the dog can curl up with him. He isn’t even sure he should go to Japan at all. No harm in being prepared though, is there?

Once they’re settled, he looks up the number for his manager. It’s not _that_ late at night, he should be awake. He taps the green symbol under his name and lifts the phone to his ear.

“Evgeny? It’s Victor. Listen, if I wanted to take my dog Makkachin and a few other things to Japan with me, how would that work?”


	12. Chapter 12

Victor’s phone buzzes by his feet. He glances down at the overbright screen; that’s the fifth time, now. With a sigh, he sets his newspaper aside and reaches for it, careful not to wake Makkachin. He and the dog are curled up together on the couch again, enjoying their quiet morning off. It can’t be Yakov texting him; he isn’t due at the rink for another couple of hours.

He stares down at the phone, reading the message previews.

_Hey, I bet you’ve had a heap of people send you this vid already, but-_

_This video has gone viral. Have you seen it yet? I’m fairly sure its Yu-_

_Hi Victor! xx How are things? Did you see this video? You’ll laugh, I-_

He opens the first one, from Mila, and clicks the link. His phone pauses, and then redirects him to YouTube. The caption to the video is in Japanese, but the preview picture is unmistakeably Yuri Katsuki.

Victor bites his lip. Why is everyone sending him one of Yuri’s skating videos? He doesn’t recognise the shot on the preview, so it must be a new one. This has to have something to do with Victor too, or people wouldn’t be- hmm.

He takes a breath and presses play.

The footage is taken from a low angle by an unsteady hand. He can hear quiet Japanese chattering as the camera rights itself and settles. Yuri is on the ice, standing with his arms by his sides. He’s wearing comfortable looking practice clothes. It doesn’t look like he knows he’s being filmed. Victor narrows his eyes, bringing his fingertips to his brow, what _is_ this?

Yuri drops his chin. Victor’s eyes widen. He recognises the opening, of course he does; it’s his. It can’t be though, can it? He’s recognised some of his own movements and spins in Yuri’s routines before, but that’s not unusual, most of the internationally-ranked skaters have the occasional tell from Victor’s repertoire too, but never a whole opening. There isn’t any music playing, but his pose is so-

Unbidden, the first notes of _Stay Close to Me_ echo in his mind as he watches. The illusion will be shattered soon, he’s sure. There’s no way Yuri is skating his whole routine. No. He refuses to give in to hope again. He lifts the small screen of his phone closer, shifting on the sofa.

Yuri looks up, arcs his hand over his brow and follows the momentum, turning. Victor watches, frozen, unable to process what he’s seeing. Yuri curls his arms in close to his chest and- this is Victor’s free program. For a moment, the world tilts and he has tunnel vision. The screen of his phone feels like it’s moving, sharpening and becoming larger in his view. His heart beats wildly and he blinks. His vision rights itself again. But Yuri is still there on the screen. Yuri Katsuki is dancing to _his_ free program.

Yuri glides across the ice, arms leading and Victor’s mind fills in the lyrics without prompting.

_Sento una voce che piange lontano._

It isn’t hard to hear; the way Yuri is moving, it’s like the music is already inside him. Victor’s music.

But why? Why is Yuri skating his free program? Does he understand what it means? Yuri lifts and arm and drops to one knee, turning back on himself, his arms in tight. For a moment, the light is perfect and Victor can see his face. He looks quiet, somber. What’s he thinking? He is so different to the last time Victor saw him. This isn’t the smiling party boy from the GP Banquet. Another surprise. Yuri is full of them, it seems.

He continues the routine, turning and sliding into position for his first jump. Jumps aren’t his strong point. Victor knows, if he does a quad, he probably won’t land it.

_Anche tu, sei stato forse abbandonato?_

Yuri flies into a quad toe-loop and lands it perfectly. Victor blinks. His form is immaculate, how long has he been working on this? It’s different to how Victor skates it. He’s changed some of the jump elements and it’s less refined. Yuri is out of shape; it looks like the rumours of him taking time off after competitions ended might be true after all. A break from scheduled training would explain some of the weight gain. That means the retirement rumours are probably true too. Victor’s stomach tightens at the thought.

_Orsù finisca presto questo calice di vino-_

Yuri’s next jump is a triple flip instead of Victor’s quad. It’s tight and technically perfect. Once again, he lands it neatly. This is nothing like how he lands jumps in competition. Yuri doesn’t even pause, just continues, turning and moving. Victor still can’t believe Yuri is skating his routine. It’s like he’s performing it just for him. Like this is a sign or a message for him. Is it? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t trust himself to guess. There’s another jump coming up, will he land that one too?

_e inizio a prepararmi._

_Adesso fa’ silenzio._

Victor’s heart is in his throat as Yuri flies through the air. He lands the jump like its second nature, his arms out and eyes downcast. It’s identical to how Victor lands it, right down to the height of his free leg from the ice. Was he thinking about Victor while he did it? He must have been. How many times has Yuri watched Victor performing this routine in order to learn to mimic it so closely? Did he learn to skate this program for Victor? He continues, every gesture and movement is familiar, but brought to life in a new way through Yuri. It’s raw, honest. More honest than how Victor skates it.

Yuri’s movements are amazing, even though he’s out of shape. Victor marvels at the arc of his hand as he lifts it. This performance is better than anything Victor’s seen from him before. His turns are tight and fast, but he seems to slow when he skates out long arcs. His gestures are elegant and intricate. Is this- is Yuri trying to prove that he has what it takes to be Victor’s student? Has he been waiting for a sign from Victor just like how Victor has been waiting for a sign from him? It’s crazy and improbable, but that’s what Yuri is like, isn’t he? One minute he’s dancing on a pole, and the next he’s skating to Victor’s free program. Or is Victor just making another stupid assumption. He can’t assume anything when it comes to Yuri Katsuki. Not again. He frowns.

_Con una spada vorrei tagliare-_

Yuri moves into his spin, head tilted back, perfectly balanced. He lets the momentum slow, just like Victor does. He bends his knee and kicks with his free leg before lifting into the pose again. It looks smoother when he does it. It makes Victor want to try it again. Get it perfect, like that. Yuri laces his fingers together behind his back, holding the pose just a fraction longer than Victor does. Could Victor hold it for longer as well? He’s never thought to try.

_quelle gole che cantano d'amore._

Yuri steps out of the spin, turning on the ice. His eyes are downcast and he looks as broken-hearted as Victor has felt these past few months. Have they both been torturing themselves for no reason? His heart soars at the thought. Perhaps Yuri feels lonely too. Perhaps he needs someone, needs Victor, just as much as Victor needs him. If that’s true, they’ve both been idiots this whole time. This beautiful, inspiring performance is exactly what Victor needs to break his dark mood. Everything will work out once the two of them see each other again.

_Vorrei serrare nel gelo le mani che-_

_scrivono quei versi d'ardente passione._

Yuri leaps into his flying sit-spin, his arms in close. Again, the spin is tight and fast. It could be faster if he’d directed the momentum better. If Victor was his coach, he’d have him practice it until it was perfect. Yuri would get there; he’s close, already. He rights himself and stands, still turning. He looks so young, he has so much potential. Why didn’t he skate like this at the competitions? He would have finished on the podium along with Victor, there’s no way he wouldn’t have. Was it his routines? The crowds? That was what Yakov had said when they first saw him skate; he'd blamed nerves. But Yuri had no problem dancing on a pole in front of an audience, so maybe Yakov had been wrong.

Yuri holds his arms out, he lifts one as the other falls. His gaze follows his palm up, down, and he turns as he lets it fall to his side. Victor can remember the day he choreographed that transition. It’s like Yuri is inside his head. He shivers.

_Questa storia che senso non ha-_

_svanirà questa notte assieme alle stelle._

He’s barely made a mistake so far. There are things he could work on, of course. But it’s nothing a few sessions with Victor wouldn’t fix. Yuri’s movements aren’t as smooth as they could be, they teeter just this side of awkward, like a little piglet. He should run through it all again. Straighten that back and point those toes. He needs more of a kick in his jumps, especially. But the fundamentals are all there. Becoming his coach would push Yuri’s skating to be more like Victor’s own. He rather likes that idea. Yuri would learn fast. After all, he learned to pole dance with Chris in about twenty minutes while drunk on champagne.

_Se potessi vederti-_

Victor narrows his eyes as Yuri flies into another jump. It’s hard to see on the small screen, but he’s certain it’s a quad salchow. He’s almost never seen Yuri land one before. He’s _never_ seen him land one well. But once again, he surprises him. The landing is flawless, Yuri’s arms are out, his hands soft. He barely looks out of breath. If he’s this good, if he’s this willing to practice and learn Victor’s routine while he’s supposed to be taking a break, then why the fuck is he retiring? Why deny himself, deny the _world_ , such talent? It doesn’t make sense. Gold medals are addictive, perhaps he just hasn’t felt what it’s like to win before.

_dalla speranza nascerà l’eternità._

Yuri moves smoothly across the ice, his dark hair ruffles at his brow as he turns. He flies into the same triple-double combination jump that Victor always does. His height is stunning. Victor can’t stop himself from wondering, again, why his jumps weren’t like this in competition. Every time Yuri makes a flawless landing, the question returns. Victor has always seen potential in Yuri, but he sees so much more now. Yuri could win gold medals and break records one day. He could rival JJ and Chris and even Victor. Why throw that away and retire? Yuri turns, arms aloft as the heart of the song crescendos inside Victor’s head.

_Stammi vicino, non te ne andare._

Stay close to me. Victor’s heart aches with it, still barely believing his eyes. Of all the routines Yuri could have chosen, he picked this one. This _has_ to mean something. Yuri’s been thinking of Victor. He’s been watching, copying his routine and- Yuri wants him too. The truth of it is so blindingly bright, it lights up everything inside Victor, filling him with hope.

Yuri skates to the far side of the rink, and then back again in a serpentine pattern across the ice. His step sequences are always good, but he performs this one better than Victor does. The precision in his movements is breathtaking. In this moment, he is perfection. It’s almost as though he’s the one that’s been skating this program all season and not Victor. This, right now, is art made living through movement and Victor is captivated. This is why they put their skates on every morning, this is why they fight through pain and injury, this is why they bare their hearts on the ice for all to see.

_Ho paura di perderti._

_Le tue mani, le tue gambe,_

_le mie mani, le mie gambe-_

Victor looks up, determination filling him. His eyes narrow. Yuri can’t retire. Victor won’t let him.


	13. Chapter 13

Victor’s apartment is a mess. He’s already used up half his packet of red dot stickers, wildly sticking them to everything he needs to take to Japan. It would be awful if the CedEx people missed boxing something up. There are his lamps, his bed (of course), and then there’s the packing he needs to do before his flight so he has his essentials as soon as he arrives.

His flight is- he grabs his phone from the pile of clothing on the floor and checks- in four hours’ time. A wave of excitement rolls over him, lifting his heart. It’s going to be amazing. He’s going to show Yuri how sexy and fun-loving he can be, how unpredictable he is. There’s no way Yuri won’t be as swept away by Victor as Victor was by him. He can almost see it already, he’ll walk into Yu-topia and the staff there will call Yuri down to the front desk. Their eyes will meet and Yuri will smile because he will already know why Victor’s there. They’ll hug and kiss right there in the reception, picking up just where they left off. They’ll be boyfriends, Victor will coach him and save him from the regret of early retirement. Yuri’s skating will go from strength to strength and he’ll win the Grand Prix Final and finally get a taste for real victory. Then Victor will-

His phone rings, a brightly-smiling picture of Chris lights up the screen. Victor smiles and answers it.

“Did you see it, Chris? Did you?” Victor springs across the room and sticks a red dot onto the marble statue in the corner, nearly knocking over a pile of books in the process.

“Why do you think I’m calling you, Victor?” sighs Chris. “Of course I saw it, practically everyone’s talking about it.”

“Isn’t it wonderful?” Victor spins on the spot, falling backwards onto his couch with a hand over his brow. He’s filled with newfound passion and hope. “My entire routine!” he gushes. “He must have spent weeks learning it so he could surprise me!”

“It was pretty impressive,” says Chris. “As far as romantic gestures go, he’s really stepped up. I wasn’t expecting this from him. What are you going to do?”

“Well,” Victor stares up at the ceiling, completely unable to wipe the grin from his face. “I was thinking about taking a break anyway, so I thought I might surprise him in Japan-” Victor stops himself from saying any more. Chris would try to talk him out of coaching Yuri, even if it’s only for a few months. He doesn’t want to hear that, his mind is already made up.

“You’re going to Japan,” says Chris. He doesn’t sound happy. “That’s not like you.”

“Isn’t it?”

“You don’t normally get,” Chris hesitates, “attached to other people. Do you?”

“Of course I do!” Victor laughs, sitting up and thumbing a sticker onto the fur on Makkachin’s forehead. The dog pants enthusiastically and bounds across the room to Victor’s empty bookshelf, upending boxes in his wake. At least someone aside from Victor is excited too.

“Do you have time?” asks Chris, changing tack. “Shouldn’t you already be training for the Russian Nationals?”

“I won’t stay long,” he lies. “I can still train over there, I’ve been doing the same new-season preparation process for more than ten years now; I don’t need help any more. Anyway, if I need Yakov for something, I can just Skype him. It’s not like _Popovich_ is much of a threat anyway.”

Making the decision to skip the Grand Prix series next season was as easy as casting off an old coat, perhaps he _does_ need a break. Though, he can’t imagine skipping the European Championship or the Worlds. He only needs to rescue Yuri from the threat of retirement. He never thought about his future much, he’s certainly never planned on leaving St Petersburg, but here he is with an upturned apartment and a singing heart. This trip might save both their careers.

“I suppose. You work too hard, it will be good for you.”

“Yes. I think it will!” Victor stands, grabbing his phone charger and tossing it into his suitcase with his skates. He leans against the door frame and looks at the mess of his apartment, turning everything over in his head. He still doesn’t have a good idea of Yuri’s character, will they get along once the first sparks have settled? “I made a mistake, Chris,” says Victor. “After the banquet, I should have-”

“You haven’t spoken to him at all since then, have you,” he chuckles. It’s not a question.

“I followed him on Instagram!” says Victor, helplessly.

“All or nothing, aren’t you.”

Victor can’t help but smile at that, dropping his gaze to his feet. His hair falls over his eyes. “As far as grand gestures go, do you think surprising him at his home is-” he sighs.

“On par with learning your Free Skate Program?” Chris chuckles. “Yes, I think it’s getting there.”

“Good. Though, I’m not sure how I’m going to-” he shakes his head. “You know.”

“Seduce him?” Chris purrs.

Victor rolls his eyes, typical Chris. “Well, yes.”

“Well, that Yuri is a Party boy, isn’t he? Everyone saw him practically naked at the Grand Prix Banquet; perhaps you should return the favour. That ought to make an impression.”

“That’s-” Victor runs a hand through his hair, trying to imagine himself wandering into Yu-topia in the middle of winter without any clothes on. “Maybe not the best approach.”

Victor doesn’t know what to expect, that’s the problem. Yuri surprised him. He was so different in the video, like someone else entirely.

\--

**Olga. Today, 7:24pm**

_Please tell me you’ve taken pity on yourself and booked a flight to Japan._

**Victor. Today 7:30pm**

_YeS!!_ (◠‿◠) _I’m taking Maka with me. The keys to my apartment will be in the letterbox._

**Olga. Today 7:31pm**

_THANK GOD!_

\--

The cold air whips across Victor’s face as he pulls the heavy back doors open and heads down the familiar corridor into the training rink. It’s strange, coming here at night without his skates or his water bottle. The last group of Juniors will have finished a few minutes ago. This is the first time Victor’s been here this late at night since he was a Junior himself. It’s eerily quiet, wandering the corridors alone. It makes him want to get out onto the ice by himself and enjoy the silence. He can’t stay that long, though; his flight is leaving soon. But there’s one person he has to speak to before he leaves.

Yakov is in his office. He stands, eyes narrowed as Victor walks in. He’s right to be suspicious, Victor has never come to visit him about anything this late before.

“Evening Yakov!” chirps Victor. This is the last thing he has to do before he can finally head off to the airport, his heart is soaring.

“Victor, what are you doing here?”

“I came to give you some important news,” says Victor. He takes a breath, why is he so nervous? It will be fine. “I’m going to take some time off from competing. I think I need a break from all of this.” He doesn’t tell Yakov about Yuri Katsuki, he’ll find out in his own time.

“You’re joking, aren’t you?” says Yakov. “This is not such a funny trick, Vitya.”

“No, I’m serious!” laughs Victor. “I’m taking a break. Probably only a couple of months, but I’ll see how I go.”

“Have you found a new coach?” Yakov’s voice sounds dangerous. “Someone to replace me?”

“No no! Nothing like that.” Victor waves the thought away with his hands. “I just need a break. I’ll just skip the Nationals and the Grand Prix series. Don’t you think I deserve a break?”

Yakov’s face sets into a mask of fury. Victor should have seen this coming, but in his whirlwind of excitement, he forgot that his leaving would affect Yakov too.

“You must be mad!” yells Yakov. “There is no way of knowing how half a season off will affect your performance. You may never be able to return to competitive skating! Is that what you want? To never win again? Just because you were a child prodigy, doesn’t mean your talent is guaranteed!”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Yakov,” says Victor. “I’ll keep fit, my body won’t know the difference.”

Yakov’s hands grip into fists. His entire body is shaking as his eyes rake over Victor’s coat, scarf, and the suitcase by his feet.

“Yes, I’m leaving tonight,” says Victor, heading off the next question.

“WHY?” Yakov’s fist connects to the surface of his desk, rattling the jumble of posessions sitting on it. “Why are you doing this to me?”

Victor wants to tell Yakov to keep his voice down, but he doesn’t dare. There’s no way the Juniors in the change rooms have missed the commotion. They’ll be listening in the hallway. “There’s no reason, Yakov. It’s just time.”

“You’re lying!” Yakov growls.

Victor sighs, turning to leave.

“Don’t I deserve an explanation? After all the years we’ve spent working together?” The slight tremor in his voice makes Victor pause.

He huffs a sigh and turns back again. The answer is yes, he does. And he’ll find out eventually anyway. “The Japanese skater, Yuri Katsuki- Surely you’ve seen the video.” Victor pauses, taking a breath. “He’s inspired me. I’m going to Japan to become his coach.”

“His COACH!? YOU?” Yakov lets out a disbelieving chuckle. “You don’t think of anyone but yourself! You could NEVER be anyone’s coach!”

Victor bites back the swell of shock and sadness tugging at his heart. It doesn’t matter what Yakov thinks. Victor might make a horrible coach, but he has to try. He isn’t going to stand and listen to this. He turns, picking up his suitcase and pulling at the office door.

“I can’t keep this private,” Yakov growls. “Everyone will know.”

It takes all of Victor’s self-control not to shout back at him. If he yells now, he has lost. His fingers are shaking on the cold steel of the door handle. “Then tell them,” he says, leaving the room.

They wanted Victor to surprise them, didn’t they? They thought he was out of ideas. That he didn’t know how. But he does. It will be the ultimate surprise, the gold-medallist reinventing himself as a coach. He’s motivated again. This is the right choice and he can do this. He’s alive with the fire of inspiration and determination. It doesn’t matter what Yakov thinks, what anyone thinks. He has to do this. He is free to do this. Finally.

Yakov pursues Victor out of the building, across the road and halfway over Tuchov bridge. The icy wind whips snow around them as Yakov calls after him.

“Vitya!” he shouts. His anger has broken, his voice is shaking with a desperate sadness. It pulls at Victor’s heart. “Don’t do this! Can’t we talk?”

Victor pauses, looking back over his shoulder at Yakov. He’s never heard him sound so upset before. Of course he’s upset, Victor has betrayed him. Broken the unsaid promise that they’d always be together, always win gold for Russia. Yakov deserves loyalty, deserves better than this. Victor smiles sadly, they’ve been a team for too long to leave things this way.

“Yakov,” Victor says, turning and walking back to him. Yakov’s face betrays nothing, his expression is like steel again but Victor’s not buying it for a second. “You are the best coach I ever had,” he says. “Nothing will change that.” Perhaps one day, Victor will be as good as Yakov is.

“If you walk away now,” says Yakov, “you can never come back.”

Victor sets his suitcase down in the snow and steps forward, grasping Yakov by the shoulders with gloved hands. This is not the time for sadness, there is so much ahead for both of them. This time apart will give Yakov time to focus on the next generation of skaters. It will give Victor time to find himself. He leans forward. “Farewell,” he murmurs, kissing Yakov on the cheek with another small, regretful smile. “I’m sorry, but this time I can’t do as you say.”

Yakov's shouting follows him all the way to the airport. "What do you mean _this_ time? You've never done what I've said in the first place!"


	14. Chapter 14

The flight to Japan takes at least five times as long as it usually does. The train ride to Hasetsu feels like it’s even longer. Victor’s bubbling enthusiasm has cooled to a simmer, along with his energy. He’s used to jet lag from competition season, but he usually gets a lot of breaks before and after his flights. Today, he’s gone directly from running around like a madman with red dot stickers to travelling without so much as a few minutes to glance around and blow a farewell kiss to his apartment.

He spends most of the flight and the train trip clutching his coaching notes and picturing Yuri’s earnest eyes, his champagne-flushed cheeks. He barely eats or sleeps. The strained notes of _stammi vicino_ keep him awake, echoing in his head. He’s watched the footage of Yuri’s performance of the program a dozen times already. He can still hardly believe it, that in the darkness, there was another lonely voice reaching out as well. That Yuri wants him too. He grins down at his knees.

His grin widens when he gets off the train at Hasetsu Station. Everywhere he turns, Yuri Katsuki’s beautiful form shines down on him. Posters immortalising his perfection adorn almost every wall and column. It shouldn’t surprise him, of course Yuri is a celebrity here. He bites his lip, eyes lingering on Yuri’s hips. He’s tempted to steal one, but he doesn’t need to. Soon, he’ll be with the real life Yuri Katsuki.

When he and Makkachin finally step out of the taxi, Victor huffs a sigh of relief. He’s made it. He stares at the traditional-style entryway, almost glowing in the cloudy afternoon light. His heart kicks up a notch. Yuri is here, he can just feel it. The frigid air around him seems to hum with possibility. He pulls his coat tightly around him, shaking his head to dislodge the snowflakes settling on his hair. He’s brought the last of Russia’s winter along with him.

“This is it, Makka,” he murmurs, glancing down at the poodle. “Now, don’t be nervous, okay? Yuri is going to be excited to see you.”

The dog pants up at him, then glances at the entryway.

 “Yes, alright. Let’s go,” Victor says, and they head inside.

The lobby of the hot springs is spacious. It feels almost overwhelmingly Japanese with its timber floors and shoji screens. The lighting is muted, with hanging red and gold lanterns.

“おはようございます,” says a man, poking his head around the screens. Victor grins as he steps into the room. He has to be a relative of Yuri’s, the bright eyes behind his glasses are unmistakeable. He can even see some of Yuri’s playfulness in his smile and his red bow-tie.

“こんにちは!” Victor waves, he should probably introduce himself too. “名前は Nikiforov Victor です,” he says, struggling to get the sounds out smoothly. He has no idea if he’s gotten it right and he’s rapidly running out of things he knows how to say in Japanese. All he’s ever managed are introductions and restaurant menus, plus a few skating words, of course.

“Ah,” says the man. “Do you speak English also? I am Katsuki Toshiya.” His accent is thick, but he pronounces the words crisply enough that Victor has no issue understanding him.

 _Katsuki_. Victor’s definitely in the right place then. Is this Yuri's father? When Yuri said his family owned a hot springs resort, Victor had assumed he meant that they had a huge place with staff that ran everything for them. Not a tiny business where Yuri's own father manned the reception. He puts a hand on Makkachin’s head, steadying his flying nerves. He slides the rough fur between his fingertips.

“Yes, I speak English,” he says. “I’ve come here from Russia to see Yuri Katsuki. Is he here?” Perhaps he should wait, have a rest or eat something, but he can’t. He wants to see the look on Yuri’s face. He wants his welcome hug.

“Yu-Topia-a Katsuki. Yes. World famous onsen!” says Toshiya, proudly.

“Ah-” Shit. His accent. Victor smiles weakly.

As though working to buy Victor some time, Makkachin pulls away from his worrying fingertips and trots over to Toshya.

“Hello doggy!” says Toshiya, squatting down to rumple Makkachin’s ears.

Victor knows he speaks English with a heavy Russian accent. English is tricky, it always feels like his palate is in the way. Like his mouth is the wrong shape for the sounds.

Toshiya looks up at Victor, still ruffling the poodle’s ears. “We had one the same, only smaller. His name was _Vicchan_.”

“Cute,” says Victor, smiling. Poodles are universal, at least. “So,” he takes a breath, he has to speak as clearly as he can. “I’m looking for your son, Yuri. I’m a figure skater too. We’re-” he trails off. Friends? Something else?

“Yes,” agrees Toshiya, a quizzical smile on his face. “Yu-topia. Hot springs.” He knows he’s missed something, but he’s probably too polite to ask Victor to repeat himself again.

Victor sighs. This isn’t going to work. He nods, giving up. “Hot springs,” he confirms.

“I will stay with doggy. You relax! Here.” He stands and heads for the screens. A moment later, he emerges with a green robe and a towel, offering them to Victor. “No shoes, blue curtain, wash first. Okay?”

“Okay,” says Victor, accepting the offered fabric. The hot springs will be good. He can catch his breath and figure out what to do next while he soaks. 

\--

He heads through the corridors, obeying Toshiya’s instructions. His eyes are everywhere, taking in the signs written in Japanese, the tiled floors and the low, steaming tubs. This is where Yuri grew up. He would have had ice skating too, of course. But this is as familiar to Yuri as sore feet and salchows are to Victor. It’s all so foreign. Nothing like St Petersburg with its ancient apartment buildings and icy canals. He’s anxious to find Yuri, of course, but in a way, it’s exciting to be here by himself. Free to explore this strange building on his own. He’s always been curious, and this is like looking through someone else’s locker while they’re out on the ice.

For a while, he sits in one of the baths inside. The man already sitting in the bath nods at him as he sits and then falls asleep. Victor would like to do the same. He isn’t sure what time it is in Russia, but he’s well overdue for a sleep. He tries to relax, but quickly gets too warm. His cheeks feel like they’re on fire. He moves on. There are all sorts of rooms with baths at different temperatures and he really should try more than just this one.

There’s a scratch on the edge of the doors leading to the outdoor bath. Perhaps Yuri caused it, carrying sharp ice skates in already-full hands. He passes more signs he can’t read and hopes he isn’t breaking any of the rules. It’s strange, being so far out of his element. All Victor and Yuri really have in common is figure skating. Without it, they never would have come within a continent of one another.

There’s no one sitting in the outside bath, probably because it’s still snowing. Most people would consider it madness to bathe outside in this weather. Victor looks around, catching the eye of the red-faced tengu mask hanging from the wall. Well, he’s the only mad Russian here, he reasons, so clearly this space is just for him. He grins to himself as he heads for the warm water, testing the temperature with his toe before he removes his robe. It feels scaldingly hot compared to the icy air swirling around him.

In the distance, he hears Makkachin’s excited barks. Toshiya didn’t seem bothered by the dog. If Victor can’t find Yuri, he might be able to stay here for a night or two and keep Makka in his room. Surely he’ll be able to figure something out today, though. Someone here must be able to understand his accent. Otherwise, he can put up a post asking for translation help on Instagram.

Carefully, he disrobes and climbs into the bath. The warmth seems to loosen his skin as he slides one leg, then another into the water. He ducks down, letting the water rise to his hips, then his shoulders. He shudders, closing his eyes for a moment as his body adjusts to the warmth. This is lovely. With no tight schedule to follow, it’s almost as though he’s on holidays. He should actually have some holidays one day. Though, he will probably never be allowed out of Yakov’s sight again after this.

He sighs, his whole body is warm, but his head and neck are still frozen. He lifts himself out of the water again, reaching for the small towel and pulling it under the water to soak it. He saw some of the other guests inside, doing the same thing. Carefully, he wrings out most of the water, folds it and sets it atop his head. The warmth of the towel seems to repel the cold right down to his chest. Now he’s a real Onsen guest. He smiles to himself and glides over to the stone edge. He rests his back against it and stares at the fountain in the middle of the bath, letting the tiredness and the tension from his travels seep away. Perfect.

What if he’s miscalculated? It’s been a long time since the Grand Prix Banquet, but- no. Yuri had performed his _entire_ program and put it up online for Victor to find. Of course this is where he’s supposed to be. He’s meant to be Yuri’s coach. Everything is going to work out. He’s going to prove he’s not a boring old skater, too frightened to spin on a dancer pole or ask Yuri for his number. He can be just as wild, just as surprising as Yuri has been. And he’ll prove Yakov wrong too. He can do this.

He’s so lost in thought, he almost ignores the bang of the doors flying open.

“V-Victor!” says a gasping shocked voice.

Victor looks over, reaching for the towel resting on his head. Everything seems to slow down. It’s Yuri. Of course it is; this is his home. Victor’s hands aren’t shaking, his heart isn’t racing. He feels almost too calm. Like he’s exactly where he’s meant to be. Chris’s teasing words echo in his mind. _Everyone saw him practically naked at the Grand Prix Banquet; perhaps you should return the favour. That ought to make an impression._

“Why are you here?” Yuri whispers in English. Wide, shocked eyes on his familiar face. He’s standing, frozen in place by the edge of the bath, hands limp at his sides.

Victor’s mind resolves. It’s clear what he has to do.

He stands, naked and confident. He turns side-on, offering a hand in the most inviting Victor-Nikiforov-Five-Time-Gold-Medallist pose he can muster. He can do anything like this. “Hello Yuri,” he says, “starting today, I’m going to be your new coach. You’re going to get to the Grand Prix Final and you’re going to win.” He drops his hand, resting it on his hip and winks. There’s no way Yuri will be able to resist him now. 

For a moment, all Yuri does is stare. Wide eyes and open mouth. “ _What?_ ”

Victor may have miscalculated. Uncertainty flutters, unfamiliar in his chest.

They both stand there, staring at one another. The air is cooling Victor’s skin so fast, he’s already beginning to shake. He feels exposed. This is his own fault. He crosses his arms over his chest. This risk had been there all along, just under the surface of his enthusiasm. He’s never had to _try_ to seduce someone before. Everyone always comes to him. Has he just-

 Yuri blinks a few times, as though waking up from a trance. “Do you- ah,” he hesitates, “need me to- pass you your robes?”

“Um-”

Yuri takes Victor’s awkward reply for assent. He tears his eyes away from Victor’s body and darts over to where the robes are lying.

Wordlessly, Victor steps across to the edge of the bath. What should he say? This wasn’t supposed to go like this. All Victor’s plans are lying, shattered at his feet and he doesn’t know what happens next. He never thought Yuri would do anything except come right to him, laughing, eyes alight like they’d been at the banquet. Instead, there’s cold water clinging to Victor’s arms and an impassable sea of awkward silence and falling snowflakes between them. He feels like an idiot. What has he misunderstood? Yuri has surprised him again, he supposes. This time the surprise isn’t so welcome.

Yuri thrusts the robes at Victor, eyes fixed on the floor. Now that Yuri’s looked away, it seems like he’s unable to look back at him again. Perhaps the initial surprise was too much and he’ll relax soon.

“Unless you’d like to join me?” says Victor, trying again.

Yuri squawks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fourteen chapters and I’m finally at the end of Episode 1. Whoops. Having fun? Leave me a comment!?


	15. Chapter 15

Once he has his robes on, he really starts to shiver. “I’m sorry if I-”

“You’re frozen. Let’s go inside before you make yourself sick. Almost no one sits in the outdoor baths this time of year.” Yuri pulls open the doors without looking over at him.

“Well, I try to be the exception," says Victor, his lips feel stiff from the cold.

As they walk through the doors, the warmth of the indoor air washes over his skin, dampening down the worst of his shivers. He wraps his arms around his middle anyway. Are they going to talk about what just happened? Victor studies the back of Yuri’s head, hoping to find answers there.

They walk along the paper-lined corridor in silence. It feels awkward, but Victor can’t think of what to say. _Are you okay or did I just scar you for life?_  His mind had been so full of great opening lines, but now that he’s here, in this situation, he can’t seem to think. He’s usually so good at this; he’s had a lot of practice with fans, interviewers, other skaters. Only, with each moment, Victor feels more and more desperate for something, anything to break the silence. Real fear uncurls in his stomach for the first time.

“Tell me about yourself,” says Victor, desperate and out of ideas. It’s what almost every professional interviewer starts with so it must be safe.

“Uh,” Yuri glances over, still keeping his eyes well away from Victor’s. “What do you want to know?”

 _Everything._ He wants to know everything. What he does when he isn’t skating, if he really is retiring, if he’ll stay on now that Victor’s here, does he have any brothers or sisters, what it was like growing up at a hot spring. There’s a vast ocean of questions he’s dying to know the answers to. It’s the worst kind of torment, having Yuri right here, but being unable to dive in.

“What’s your favourite colour?” he asks, finally.

Yuri stops, turning and almost meeting his eyes. “My- what?”

Victor takes a step forward, but Yuri moves away, maintaining the distance between them.

“Your favourite colour,” he says, again, his voice gentle. Surely this isn’t too much. He can’t tell any more. Doesn’t know what is alright and what’s too far. He swallows down his fears and keeps a light medal-winning smile on his face. Yuri can’t know how much this has rattled him.

“It’s ah-” Yuri turns and heads down the corridor again, “blue,” he says over his shoulder.

 _Blue_. Victor sighs, his eyes trained on the back of Yuri’s neck as he follows. He’s too nervous he’ll overstep if he asks why. Is it the colour of the sky? The ocean? His most recent Free Program costume? Perhaps there’s no reason at all, Victor may never know for sure. He’s messed this up. But how? How could he have possibly made a mistake? And what was it? Yuri can’t have been thrown by the naked thing. He’s an athlete and a party boy who grew up surrounded by nude people in the hot springs and even more in ice rink change rooms. Besides, Victor has seen almost as much of Yuri as Yuri has seen of him. He’s so confused. After everything that happened at the banquet, why is Yuri treating him like a stranger? How did he misread the other skater so badly?

They emerge into a large space that looks like it must be one of the inn’s dining rooms. Victor reaches for Yuri’s shoulder, ready to ask, ready to clear the air-

“Victor Nikiforov!?” gasps a short woman with glasses and Yuri’s eyes. She bounds forward and flies into him, giving him his first hug since he landed in Japan. It’s the hug Victor had expected would come from Yuri. He feels bitter about it. It’s stupid.

“Hello!” Victor says, smiling wide, ever the cheerful gold-medallist.

“This is my mother Hiroko,” says Yuri, his cheeks flaming pink. “Mum? Do you want to-” he tugs helplessly at her sleeve until she releases Victor.

“Oh, it’s so good to meet you!” Hiroko says. Her English is much better than her husband’s. “You didn’t tell me he was coming, Yuri,” she admonishes.

“It was a surprise!” says Victor, glancing over at Yuri who immediately looks away. Does Yuri even want him here?

“A good surprise, I’m sure,” says Hiroko. “Yuri has been watching you skate since he was a boy.”

“Really?” asks Victor, intrigued. As a professional athlete, Yuri would have needed to study the competition, but the way Hiroko’s eyes are shining makes Victor suspect there might be more to it than that. He likes her, he decides.

“Victor Nikiforov, Huh.”

Victor looks across the room to see another Japanese woman, much younger than Hiroko, stepping past the sliding doors.

“Oh, Victor,” says Hiroko, taking his hand, “this is Mari.”

It’s not long before Yuri’s father and Makkachin join them too. The poodle bounces around, yipping excitedly at the Katsuki family. He seems especially fond of Yuri, sniffing at him and staring up at his face with dark, earnest eyes. Yuri’s mother and sister seem to find it incredible that Toshiya didn’t recognise Victor when he’d first arrived at the hot springs. Enough of the conversation is in Japanese that Victor can’t quite place why. Everyone laughs at Toshiya’s expense. The man takes it in stride, though, chuckling down at the floor with his hands in his pockets.

Victor keeps an eye on Yuri throughout the conversation. Instead of being the focus of everything, he stands off to the side, his cheeks still flaming red. He seems very small, there’s no hint of the sparkling presence he has when he’s skating _Stammi Vicino,_ or dancing on that pole at the Grand Prix Banquet. It’s like he’s a totally different person here. When they get some time alone, they will have to talk properly. Get to know one another. Victor can take things slow, if that’s what Yuri wants. He can keep his fingertips from that dark hair, his lips away from that Cupid’s bow.

“Victor, when did you last eat?” asks Hiroko. “If you’re hungry, we can have dinner early.”

“Now that you mention it,” Victor smiles. He’s starving. The combination of nervous anticipation and excitement have made him forget his stomach.

“I’ll cook something. Sit down, relax.”

Victor looks over at Yuri. “Where do you usually sit?” he asks, gently. He quirks a small smile, like the one he uses for nervous interviewers.

Yuri blushes and looks down.

\--

Sleep loses its grasp on Victor’s mind as suddenly as a warm blanket being pulled away at five in the morning. Victor keeps still, suppressing the physical jolt of sudden consciousness. The sound that woke him is a woman’s voice, frantically speaking in Japanese. How long has he been asleep on the dining room floor?

Dinner had been light, mostly fish and soup. Yuri’s father had taken his bowl of food out to the reception in order to keep an eye on the guests. Victor and the others had mostly talked about skating and the inn. Yuri was quiet.

“What are your plans for next season?” Victor asked, ever hopeful.

The other skater kept his eyes on his food, his cheeks turning a brilliant red. “I’m not sure.” He’d muttered. “It’s been a difficult few months.”

An understatement – for Victor at least. “Surely you’ve given it a bit of thought,” he teased. “You don’t miss skating at all?”

“I still skate,” admitted Yuri. “There’s a rink just near here.”

Victor’s muscles twitched, alive with excitement. Even one day without Yakov’s training had him feeling like a couch potato. “Really? You’ll have to take me there. We can do our first session tomorrow.”

Yuri kept his eyes on his food, silent. It made Victor’s stomach tighten. He tried not to grip his chopsticks too tightly.

“That sounds like a wonderful idea,” smiled Hiroko after what seemed like an eternity.

“Yeah,” said Yuri, mostly to the table.

“Would you like to see me skate something?” asked Victor, barely pausing to consider the words. He was reaching again, but did it matter? If he’d already messed everything up, what else was there to lose? No, he couldn’t leave things without one last shot. The pain of rejection lanced through his chest, almost physical. He couldn’t think like this right now. Not in front of everyone.

“Uh- there is. Well.” Yuri hesitated.

Victor waited, he could feel his heart thumping in his jawbone.

“Could you skate Stammi Vicino? For me?” asked Yuri.

It was as though Victor’s entire soul was alight with fireflies.

“I would love to,” he murmured.

There was a small smile on Yuri’s lips, almost too small to notice. It was still enough to send Victor’s heart soaring with hope.

Before he’d fallen asleep, the Katsuki family left the room to clear the dishes away. Victor must have gone from playing with Makkachin on the dining room floor to falling fast sleep in a matter of seconds. Jetlag. Even now, he feels like he could drift off again right here, despite the fact that he’s still actually quite hungry – and there’s noisy conversation all around him. He keeps his eyes closed, listening as Hiroko chimes in. Her tone is affectionate, at least. Then it’s the unfamiliar woman’s voice again, speaking quickly. Victor rolls onto his side, hugging Makkachin close in to his chest. The dog must be tired too, he doesn’t stir.

Yuri replies, also in Japanese. The language sounds neat and square coming out of his mouth. It’s nothing like the way he speaks English. Victor could probably listen to him speak Japanese for days if Yuri would let him. He could say whatever he liked and Victor would have no idea. It would be enchanting, he’d be engrossed. Maybe he could learn some Japanese as well. He’s always been quick with languages, his French is quite good these days.

The woman replies again and Yuri is quiet for a long time, letting her speak. She goes on and on, sounding frantic and shocked. All Victor can understand is his own name and Yuri’s, it’s madding. He fights to keep his face blank, eyes gently closed as his empty stomach curls itself into knots. Is this Yuri’s girlfriend? Perhaps they got together since the Banquet and she’s angry that Victor’s here. That would make sense. It was dumb of him to assume Yuri would stay single for long. Maybe she was swept away by his skating of _Stammi Vicino_ as well. Maybe the video was actually for her. That would be the ultimate irony. A case of bad timing and miscommunication, just like the original opera. Has he thrown away the safety of his career for nothing? Who is he without Yakov and Russia and skating? What has he done? It hurts, the thought sends waves of twisting bleakness through his heart.

Yuri gasps in shock and all Victor wants to do is open his eyes to see why. He tamps down on it, though. He doesn’t want to interrupt them.

The woman speaks again. Perhaps he’s jumping to conclusions too quickly. Her voice sounds older. She might not be his girlfriend. But then, why the shock? It doesn’t make sense. Victor clenches his jaw. It probably has nothing to do with him. Yuri has more going on than just what Victor has seen. It’s not like he sits still and does nothing when he’s not competing. He has his own life, his own complications. Victor has arrived assuming that Yuri is no one except the skater he knows. But, whatever else is going on, Victor wants to be a part of that too. If Yuri lets him.

He sneezes.

Both Yuri and the new woman gasp.

Victor can’t feign sleep now, so he sits up slowly, arms still full of poodle fur. He’s not going to freak out and demand to know if this is Yuri’s girlfriend. He’s going to play it cool, see what happens.

“He’s awake!” hisses Yuri.

 Victor looks around at them, “Is there more food around here?” he asks, it’s the first thing he thinks of. He keeps his drowsy eyes focussed on Yuri. He can feel his robe slipping off his shoulder. Good. “I’m so hungry,” he murmurs.

The woman, she _is_ older, turns to look at Yuri, muttering something in Japanese.

Yuri gasps, waving his arms frantically. “Sure, we’ve got lots of food, what would you like?”

“What’s your favourite food, Yuri?” asks Victor. “If I’m going to be your coach, that’s something I ought to know, don’t you think?”

“Katsudon,” says the woman, smiling.

“What’s that?”

“It’s a Japanese pork cutlet bowl,” says Yuri. “I’ll just go see if there’s any left.” He hops to his feet and heads for the kitchens.


	16. Chapter 16

The pork cutlet bowl is a blur of pleasure. It’s oily and carby and everything Victor loves in food but usually can’t indulge in. “Really! There are no words! This must be what God eats!” he exclaims between mouthfuls as the bowl rapidly empties.

At least he’s making Yuri’s mother smile, she practically skips away, her cheeks glowing with pleasure from the compliments to her cooking.

“Glad you like it so much,” says Yuri.

The woman, Minako, sits next to him. They would make a nice enough pair, despite the age difference. Victor’s eyes narrow, they look at ease in one another’s company. Victor doesn’t like it, but he can’t deny that Yuri is much more relaxed with her in the room. While Yuri was off getting more food, Minako introduced herself as his former ballet instructor. She used to be a professional performer and can still speak a bit of Russian from her time touring. Not that Russian is enough to sway Victor. Though, she’s also the one who suggested Yuri started ice skating in the first place. If it wasn’t for her, Yuri and Victor would never have met. And yet-

“The rule was,” she says, her eyes on Yuri, “he could only eat it after winning a competition since he gains weight so easily.”

Yuri visibly tenses. Does he not want Victor to know these things? He needs to know if he’s going to be his coach. No one, not Yakov, not even Yuri, seems to think he’s serious about this. But he is. And if Yuri doesn’t get into shape, they won’t be winning anything. Yuri is too good a skater to get fat and give up. If Victor has thrown away his chance to compete this next season, it has to be for a good reason.

“Oh really?” Victor asks, his voice turning dangerous. He eyes Yuri, nervous about the words he’s about to say. The sting of rejection makes him reckless. “Tell me, have you had a pork cutlet bowl recently?” What he really wants to ask is _are you preparing for next season or are you spending all your time eating?_ It’s a test. Straight out of Yakov’s book.

“Sure!” says Yuri. Victor’s heart sinks. “They’re my favourite, so I eat them all the time!” Yuri is smiling. It’s the first time Victor’s seen him happy since he arrived. Does food delight him more than anything else? More than skating or winning or- Victor?

“Oh yeah?” Victor’s smile widens, despite the yellow-tinged bitter ache at the back of his throat. “But you haven’t won anything, have you?”

Yuri gets it. His face falls.

Victor knows just what Yakov would say.

“There’s not a lot I can do with you until you lose that piggy gut and work off those love handles.” His smile still plastered onto his face like a mask. The words feel worse because Yuri actually looks more comfortable at this weight. It suits him just as well as the leaner look does. But this isn’t an aesthetic thing, he’s an athlete. The extra kilos will just hold him back. “You need to get back to your weight at last year’s Grand Prix Final at the least.” He swipes a grain of rice off his cheek and eats it, still smiling. “Or I can’t coach you.”

Yuri is finally looking at him. Staring, really. Eyes fixed to Victor’s, his jaw almost on the floor. But Victor doesn’t regret it. If Yuri wants him as a coach, he’s going to have to work for it. He’s serious.

Minako looks shocked too. Good. She’d better get used to having Victor around.

“So why don’t you lay off the pork cutlet bowls, okay little piggy?” The last jab is purely spite. How dare Yuri do this to himself. How dare Minako stand by while it happens.

“Uh-huh” says Yuri, hands over his face.

\--

Victor’s boxes arrive at the inn and the next few minutes are flurry of activity as the Katsuki family makes up a room for him. Yuri lifts and carries box after box upstairs. Victor leaves him to it, they both need time to think and Yuri needs the exercise.

Once Yuri’s down to the last one, a little sweaty and definitely worn out, Victor follows him upstairs with Makka trailing behind. He’s careful to keep out of the way, just in case. It would be a bit of a false start if either of them fell and got injured by a heavy box the night before their first training session.

He follows Yuri into the room. It’s filled to bursting with his boxes. “Ahh!” he says, stretching and looking around at the small space. “What an incredibly adorable little room!” It’s still dark, but Victor can tell it’s styled just like the rest of the hot springs with traditional shoji screen walls and tatami mat flooring. It’s small, but it’s _his_ room and he’s here with Yuri. Finally. Alone and able to talk. “Is there a sofa?” he asks.

“No, sorry.” Yuri is still crouched down beside the last of the boxes. He looks up at Victor, bespectacled and smiling. It makes Victor feel like he’s walking on air. “I know it’s really small,” says Yuri, “but it’s the only room we had available.”

Victor smiles. It will be just the two of them, plus Makkachin, for months. He can barely believe it. This is really happening. Maybe things will work out after all. “I’ll make it work, don’t you worry,” he says with a wink. “Oh, and we can defer my coaching fee for now.” Perhaps Yuri is worried about the expense of Victor as his coach. The Katsuki family are far from the resort-owning weathly Japanese family Victor had pictured. Not that he cares; he’d coach Yuri for free with a song in his heart. “I’ll bill you once you’ve won something.”

“Okay. Thank- you?” says Yuri, still uncertain. It’s unacceptable.

“Now then,” Victor kneels down, his voice soft. “I want to know everything about you Yuri,” he slides a hand under his chin. He hasn’t touched him since the banquet. He’s really here. Warm and alive under his fingertips. Yuri stares back at him, wide-eyed, “like, what kind of rink you skate at and what hobbies do you have.” He thinks of Minako. “If there’s a girl you like.” He draws him closer, sliding his other hand down Yuri’s arm to play at his fingertips. He can feel cool air against his chest as his robe shifts. His heart is pounding. He’s about to get what he wants. “Let’s get to know each other.”

It’s just like at the Banquet; Yuri is close enough, all he needs to do is lean in. And unlike last time, Victor is sure he will. Yuri wants this as much as Victor does. He can tell by the way he’s staring, the warmth coming off him. Any moment now.

“A relationship like this should be built on trust, don’t you think?” Victor murmurs.

Suddenly, Yuri squeals and scuttles backwards away from Victor, out of the room and into the hallway. His face flaming red.

The surprise of his sudden movement makes Victor feel cold. He doesn’t understand. “What’s wrong?” he asks, dumbly. “Why did you run away?”

“Ah, I had a leg-cramp!” says Yuri, almost hysterical. Is his eye twitching?

Victor tilts his head and time seems to slow as they stare at one another. Was it his talk about food before? It can’t be. Why won’t he-

“Sorry,” Yuri gets to his feet. “I’ll leave you to settle in. I’m just next door. Goodnight!”

The slam of Yuri’s bedroom door rocks the timber building. Victor’s mind skitters to a halt. All that’s left is the sound of his own breath. Silence. He’s still kneeling on the floor. Alone. Staring at the empty spot where Yuri just was. Slowly, he shifts so he’s sitting. He has to be careful, his hands are shaking. He presses them to his lips and closes his eyes, foolish hope shattering again. He feels crushing disappointment, sadness, too many things all at once pressing down on him. What happened?

Eventually, he picks himself up off the floor and, almost mechanically, starts getting ready for bed. Yuri has laid out a futon for him and he manages to find the suitcase he arrived at the inn with. The rest of the boxes- well. He may not even get to unpacking them. He presses his eyes closed again and sighs, grabbing his toothbrush and face cream.

By the time he’s back from the bathroom, his nerves have settled. He’s going to give it one last try. Victor can’t help but think he’s missing something. So far, Yuri has acted nothing like the fun, flirty person that seduced him at the banquet. But, he didn’t take time off and come all the way to Japan for no reason. The way Yuri skated _Stammi Vicino_ showed Victor that Yuri understood him. He’s still pretty sure that the video was an invitation. Stay Close to Me. He can’t just give up on this.

Feeling reckless, he grabs the futon off the floor and folds it under his arm. He heads out of his room and along the corridor to Yuri’s door. He raises a hand and knocks.

“Yuri, let’s have a slumber party!” he calls, faking light-hearted cheerfulness. “Come on, open up. It’s a perfect way for us to learn more about each other!” He knocks on the door again.

“Noo!” comes Yuri’s muffled cry from inside the room. Is Victor that terrible?

“Yuri?” he says, again. There’s a scuffling sound coming from inside, like Yuri is frantically moving around in the room.

“Yuri? Yuu-ri!”

The door never opens.

\--

“Olga? Are you there?” Victor isn’t sure he’s gotten through, the line seems scratchy. He sits up on the futon and angles the phone away from his chin.

“What is it Victor, I’m busy.” Even just the sound of Olga’s terse voice is a relief.

“It didn’t work. He doesn’t want me.” He struggles to keep his voice even. He can’t cry. No way. He closes his eyes, drops his chin.

“He said that?” asks Olga, “That he didn’t want you to be his coach?”

“No, I think he wants me to coach him, he just doesn’t-”

“Victor, honestly you can be so damn impatient sometimes,” interrupts Olga.

“What?” he asks, weakly. He must be missing something again.

“Coach him. Get to know him. Take your time for once,” she says. Victor can almost see the stern expression on her face.

Victor frowns. “I don’t know if-”

“Of course it will,” Olga snaps. “Now leave me alone, I have work to do.”

The line goes dead.

Victor lets the phone fall from his hand and land with a dull thud beside him. That’s it. There’s no one else he can talk to. His parents would worry, other skaters or Yakov would see how weak he’s become. He can’t let anyone see that. He’s all alone.

He lies down and thinks back to that laughing, excited Victor from two days ago, bouncing around his apartment with red dot stickers and a song in his heart. “You’re an idiot,” he mutters into the darkness. “You think you’re going to start some wild, passionate romance, but you barely know him.” He’s angry at his own naïve stupidity. He’d been so excited on the flight, on the train. Gripping his coaching notes and smiling at nothing. How could this have gone so wrong?

When he left Russia, Yakov had told him if he left, he couldn’t come back. Was that true? Has he thrown away his skating career, the only thing good he has, for this? He can’t leave now. He has nothing to go home to. And if he gives up, Yuri will retire and that will be _two_ of them off the ice. It will all have been for nothing. He can’t make Yuri love him, but he can make Yuri love skating again.

He reaches for his phone and scrolls to the video of Yuri skating _Stammi Vicino_. He presses play and watches the familiar footage, trying to understand. To make sense of everything. He feels like an idiot. Yuri had asked him to skate this routine tomorrow. For him. Does he have the strength left to do it? The video plays through and Victor re-starts it again.

“What did I do wrong? I gave up my life, my career for you. Why don’t you want me?” he whispers to the Yuri on the screen. Yuri moves elegantly, every movement filled with longing, with love. All lies. “Why don’t you care?” Tears are playing at his eyes and for once, no one is around to see how weak he is.

Victor cries. He pulls Makkachin in close underneath his chin and lets the tears fall onto his pillow.


	17. Chapter 17

Victor wakes early and rubs at his eyes, disoriented. Where is he? Oh. The events of the night before come flooding back, settling like a stone in his stomach. He closes his eyes again and tries to push it all away. His mind is already racing, shifting between each moment with Yuri since he arrived. So much for that old saying: ‘ _morning is wiser than evening’_. He sighs, slapping his hands over his face to supress a frustrated groan. He has to stop this. Maybe if he just relaxes and gives it time- who knows. He needs to put his own feelings aside and focus on coaching for now. Yuri wants him as a coach, he’s pretty sure. As for the rest- he’s not strong enough to think about it right now.

He rolls over, careful not to squash Makkachin and reaches for his phone. There are several messages, one missed call and a few other things to sort through; word must be out that he’s left Russia for Japan, then. He knew it was only a matter of time, but this was quick. There really is no going back now. He spends a few minutes replying to the messages, mostly from his rink-mates fishing for gossip. His agent needs to be talked out of quitting, Victor promises as many skype-style press interviews as he can make time for in exchange for peace. Mila has linked him to a video of Yakov speaking to the media. He’s standing in the snow, wide-eyed and furious, shouting about how Victor is too selfish to be anyone’s coach.

Victor lets out a long, slow breath through pursed lips. Yakov is usually right about these things and Victor never listens to him. He could be in St. Petersburg right now, training with the others. Working through the details of the _Agape_ program with Yakov. Has he made a terrible mistake? If he has, he’s going to have to live with it. Be patient, just like Olga said. He’d be regretting not coming here if he’d stayed in Russia. He would have spent every day wondering what he’d missed out on until he eventually drove himself mad. At least now he _knows_ what’s here. Besides, there’s almost no way that today could go any worse than yesterday.

Victor gets up, puts on the green robes from last night and wanders out of his room. The early morning light casts long shadows across the silent corridor. He ignores Yuri’s closed bedroom door and pads out along the hall. He’s got to let Yuri come to him first. The timber floor creaks quietly below his feet as he moves. It looks like everyone is still asleep. There’s a slight chill in the air leftover from the night before. These early morning rays aren’t enough to take the edge off yet. The snow has stopped, though. Victor rubs his arms, wandering through to the dining room and the kitchens. He needs coffee.

He has no idea what today will hold. Will Yuri even want to speak to him after last night? He pushes the thoughts out of his head, focussing on getting some caffeine into his system. He’s been an early riser as long as he’s been figure skating. When he trains in Russia, he’s up well before dawn every day. There’s no reason for such an early start anymore; his sleep patterns are just a hangover from when he was still a student and had to fit skating around his education. In the years since, he’s kept the habit of waking up and training early. For him, it feels right. Perhaps Yuri prefers to sleep in, they were up fairly late last night.

Coffee in hand, Victor heads out to have a better look around. He moves from room to room, taking in the quiet spaces one after another. He notices a lot more now that he isn’t so jetlagged. High ceilings, lanterns, heavy timber beams. It really is a different world compared to St Petersburg. It all feels so ancient, foreign. Signs he can’t read and images he doesn’t recognise-

He stops.

Well, there’s one thing he _does_ recognise. He frowns down at the framed poster of himself. It’s from his free skate routine two years ago, his arms are aloft and he’s bathed in blue light. He must have signed thousands of these in the last couple of years. This one isn’t signed, though. It’s sitting, unassuming, on a bookshelf with a set of three Russian Babushka dolls. Victor has seen plenty of pictures of Yuri around the inn, mostly stills from his competitions, but he assumed they were because of Yuri’s proud parents. This, though. Victor ducks down to have a closer look. Toshiya didn’t recognise him and yet there’s a framed poster right here. Does he look so much older he’s unrecognisable? He hopes not. Did Yuri buy this at a competition? Or online?

Oh, hope flares in him like a flame. He _hopes_ they’re all Yuri’s. He pokes his likeness on the nose and takes a sip of his coffee, grinning. The dolls are stocked in tourist shops all over Russia. Did Yuri buy them when he was competing there or get them delivered? Either option sounds brilliant to Victor. He had a feeling Yuri might be a fan of his, judging by Hiroko’s reaction when he arrived. Oh, if he ends up staying on to coach, and the odds are looking much more likely now that he’s seen this, he’s definitely stealing the poster and the dolls for his room.

Feeling much more cheerful, he moves on. Along one of the hallways he finds a small courtyard and slides one of the doors open, stepping out onto the recently-shovelled paving. The brisk air outside is refreshing, but if he doesn’t keep moving, he’ll be cold soon. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, stretching and setting his empty coffee cup down. His muscles feel tight from travelling. He has no idea what the day will hold, if Yuri will take him to the skating rink or even if he’ll be asked, politely, to leave Hasetsu. He touches his chin, looking down.

Normally, he’s working through his morning warm-up by now. There’s no reason to skip it, he supposes. In fact, he’ll be too tight to skate properly if he does. He fishes his phone out from his green robes and scrolls through until he finds an interval workout that will serve as a warm-up. He has no idea if there’s an exercise bike at the inn, so this will have to do. He strips down to just the trousers, ignoring the icy air; he’ll be too hot in a minute. He clears his mind, brushing aside every worry and focusses on his body instead.

The workout has a lot of jumping, squatting and probably too many lunges, but by the time he’s finished, he’s sweaty and out of breath. He heads over to the nearest pile of snow and scoops some into his mouth, enjoying the refreshing iciness. He looks around. The windows of the inn are all still dark with no movement inside. Is everyone still in bed? He could keep going, he’s feeling good. There’s the pleasant, familiar buzz of adrenaline pumping through him and his feet are behaving for once. He heads over to the far courtyard wall. It’s high enough to substitute as a barre and there are rocks around that can serve as weights. He grins to himself, vaulting over the wall and retrieving a couple from amongst the garden. He tests the heft, one’s slightly heavier than the other, but they’ll do. He can do some conditioning and then stretch until Yuri appears.

\--

“Good morning Victor!” says Yuri, smiling brightly as Victor rounds into the kitchen after his workout.

Victor blinks. This is a change from last night. He honestly wasn’t sure what to expect today, but happy and comfortable? It makes even less sense than Yuri’s rejection of him last night. Yuri is giving him whiplash. Not that he’s going to complain at this latest change. He rubs at the sweat prickling at the back of his neck.

“Hi!” Victor says, cheerful. “I thought you were still asleep.” He’d come into the kitchen to get himself a glass of water. Yuri is sitting at the table, a plate of greens and some chicken in front of him. Good.

“Sorry, I didn’t want to disturb you,” says Yuri. “You looked busy.”

“I was waiting for you to wake up, sleepyhead!” laughs Victor. It hadn’t occurred to him that Yuri might not want to interrupt him. “You should have come outside and told me you were awake.”

“Oh, well- sorry.” Yuri blushes, dropping his gaze.

“It’s okay,” Victor says, gently. Yuri does seem much more relaxed this morning. He shouldn’t push things by being too over the top. He folds his arms.

“I can make you some breakfast if you’re hungry,” says Yuri.

“Great!” Victor smiles. He’s not hungry yet, but once the buzz from the workout wears off, he’ll be famished.

“Coming right up.” Yuri hops up and heads for the fridge.

Victor makes a beeline for the table, but pauses before he reaches the seat beside Yuri’s abandoned plate. He can’t push. Yesterday showed he’s an incredibly bad judge of where Yuri’s comfort level is. Best not to test anything. He sits, leaving one seat free between where Yuri is sitting and himself.  

“How did you sleep?” asks Yuri.

“Pretty well,” lies Victor. “This place is so peaceful. I can see why you and your family love it so much.”

“Sorry I didn’t want to do the slumber party thing,” says Yuri from halfway inside the fridge, “my room was a mess.”

“It’s okay,” Victor doubts that was the problem. “Some other time, perhaps.”

Once Yuri has put together a breakfast for Victor, he returns to the table, the full plate and a glass of water in his hands. He sets Victor’s food down in front of him and goes to take his seat. Victor watches as he realises there’s an empty spot between them. There’s a pause. Then he slides his own plate across and sits down directly beside Victor.

Victor decides not to say anything. He smiles, warmth glowing is his heart as he tucks into his breakfast.

“What would you like to do today, Yuri?” he asks, after he’s had a few mouthfuls.

“Well, I thought I could take you to Ice Castle, that’s the local rink where I practice. Show you around and see if you like it.”

The way he says it makes it sound like Victor will be coaching him. It’s enough to make Victor want to dance up on the table. But he’s not going to assume anything anymore, he has to ask properly.

“Do you-” Victor pauses. “Still want me to be your coach?” Yuri had practically begged him at the GP Banquet, but so much has changed since then. He doesn’t want to force Yuri into this if he’s not ready.

“Oh! Well, I mean. If you want- to,” stammers Yuri.

“I already told you I wanted to,” explains Victor. “I’m asking you what _you_ want.”

He eyes Yuri intently. Yuri has a habit of dropping his gaze whenever they make eye contact. Victor’s beginning to suspect that without the champagne, Yuri really doesn’t have a lot of confidence. Not in his skating, or when he’s talking to Victor.

“Yes.” Yuri says, eventually. “I want you to be my coach. Will you?”

“I will. Once you’re back in shape.” Happy butterflies spring to life in Victor’s stomach and he smiles. Coaching an athlete is so personal, almost intimate. Asking someone to be your coach is almost like a marriage proposal. Before he’s tempted to try to hug Yuri, he turns back to his breakfast again. “Tell me about the rink,” he says.

“It’s just the local place, I know the owners and they let me use it whenever it’s free. The rink is Olympic size, pretty smooth, they have a resurfacer ready to go whenever. Actually, you would have seen it. In the video of me skating your routine.”

“That’s your _local place_?!” asks Victor, shocked. The rink in the video was as nice as the one Victor trains at in St Petersburg, the Sports Champions Club. It may even be better, since he always has to share the ice in Russia. There’s usually another ten people around, warming up or practicing. Getting a rink _that size_ to themselves will be incredible.

“Well, yeah. It used to be busier, but Hasetsu is- quieter these days,” says Yuri, a note of sadness in his voice.

“Well,” says Victor. “That’s good for us, at least. If we can get it to ourselves, we should definitely use it as our primary training rink for now.”

“Sure.”

Victor takes another bite of his food. How on earth is he going to survive _totally_ private training sessions with Yuri?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to try the Victor Nikiforov Workout? I’m nerdy enough that I did it and now you can too. All you need is a dining chair and some (optional) weights. Think of me when you’re doing those butterfly kicks.  
> Part 1 - HIIT ‘warm-up’ Workout: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_OkfUDzMVSs (I hate that Victor is calling this a warm-up, but at his elite level, it would be. For me, it's a challenge).  
> Part 2 - Barre Conditioning Workout: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OC9VbwyEG8U (Victor’s was self-directed, but this is close enough)  
> Should take about an hour, but I’d allow extra time to do some more stretching afterwards so you’re figure-skater flexible.


	18. Chapter 18

Victor showers, changes into his practice clothes and they head out to the rink together. Yuri even manages to find cheerful-looking yellow bike for Victor to ride. The sun is shining and most of the snow has melted by the time they make it over the bridge and across town. Makkachin comes along, yipping and prancing alongside Victor’s bike. Yuri is- less enthusiastic. But he needs the exercise.

Victor enjoys the ride. There’s fresh air ruffling at his hair and everything feels new. He knows it’s only a matter of time before the press figures out where in Japan he’s hiding. They’re already out looking for him. Once the secret breaks, there will be photographers everywhere and no more casual bike rides until things settle down again. He’s caused a sensation in Russia, running off in the middle of the night to train another country’s athlete. He’ll pay for that eventually. For now, though, it’s just the sun, the melting snow and Yuri’s panting breath. He even greets the fisherman on the dock in Japanese as they ride by, feeling, for a moment, like he’s on holidays. Or, at least, he’s pretty sure this would be what a proper holiday feels like.

His heart is humming with anticipation when they arrive at the rink. He can almost smell the ice. He ties up his bike and settles Makkachin, smiling as Yuri finally catches them.

“I assume this is the place?” asks Victor. He knows it is, he’d recognise a skating rink anywhere in the world. It’s blue and white, there’s still snow on the steps leading up to the main entry.

“Yes,” gasps Yuri, still out of breath.

Victor nods and heads inside. The weight of the skates in his backpack is like a promise. He hasn’t been near an ice rink since Russia. His last training session with Yakov feels like years ago, now. Lost in a haze of excitement and heartbreak.

He’s never been inside Ice Castle Hasetsu before, but that doesn’t stop him from feeling like he’s come home. The sensation of familiarity is overwhelming and comforting. Maybe it’s because he spent last night in such unfamiliar surroundings. He recognises the lockers, they’re the same as the ones at St Petersburg. The boot racks are identical to the ones at Christophe’s training rink in Switzerland. There’s even that familiar poster of Yuri on the wall beside the main counter. It feels right, all of it.

“Hello?” says one of what looks like identical triplets standing at the counter. She sounds surprised, like she can’t quite believe what she’s seeing. There are two adults standing behind the kids. The group of them look like they’re ready for a nice family photo. Perhaps they spotted Victor and Yuri arriving outside.

“Hello,” says Victor, waving pleasantly. “I’ll be Yuri’s coach from now on. Victor Nikiforov, nice to meet you.” He winks.

The entire family gapes in unison. He’s not sure what’s wider, their eyes or their mouths.

\--

Once Yuri gets his breath back, he introduces Victor to the rink owners, the Nishigori family. They’re all shy around him, chattering amongst themselves in Japanese, but that’s to be expected. He’s gotten used to the casual, friendly air of Yuri’s family. But if anyone in Hasetsu was going to recognise him, it’s these five. Really, Victor has been lucky that so far no one else in the town has recognised him.

His low-level buzz of excitement climbs to a nearly physical tremor as he walks into the rink with Yuri. He recognises this space instantly; it’s definitely the rink from the video. The signs are the same, the yellow bumpers over the barriers, even the low light and high ceiling. In a few minutes, he’ll be out there on the ice skating for Yuri alone.

“Wow,” he murmurs to Yuri, his eyes scanning hungrily over the expanse of empty ice.

“It’s alright, isn't it,” says Yuri, glancing over at him, a faint blush staining his cheeks.

“I recognise it from the video.” Victor looks around, getting his bearings. “It would have been filmed from about where we’re standing, yes?”

“You can thank the triplets for that. I had no idea they were even there, let alone recording me.”

Victor’s lips quirk into a half-smile. He had wondered. “That makes sense,” he says, reaching for his backpack and pulling it off his shoulder. “Well, I’m glad you uploaded it for me anyway.”

He unzips his backpack and pulls out his golden skates.

Yuri makes a noise that has him pause.

“What is it?” he asks. "Something wrong?" Perhaps it’s the skates- they’re becoming quite famous in their own right these days.

Yuri looks conflicted. “N- no,” he says, after a pause. His cheeks are beet red again.

“I’d let you give them a go, but they’re definitely too big for you,” Victor says, lifting the skates out of the bag properly.

“The- what?” stammers Yuri.

“My skates.”

“Oh, no, that’s okay.” Yuri offers his palms, backing away.

“Hmm.” Victor puts his bag down, feeling like he’s missed something. Again. There is a lot going on with Yuri that he hasn’t quite figured out yet. He doesn’t know how to help him. How to get him out of that shell and just relax- like he was at the GP Banquet. Perhaps his skating will help show him his feelings. Prove that he’s serious. It’s all he has left when smiles and words don’t work.

“Do you still want me to skate my program for you?” Victor asks. “I mean, I should skate something, get a feel for the rink.”

“Oh, yeah. Absolutely!” says Yuri, eyes alight. “I’ve seen you skate plenty of times, but only ever on a screen. I missed you at the Grand Prix. I was still warming up before my Short Program, and then you skated after me for the Free Program so I was already-” he pauses. “Already out the back with my coach.”

“It’s okay,” Victor sing-songs. “I prefer this. It’s quieter, just you and me.” He catches Yuri’s eyes, not quite game enough to step forward after last night. He lets the moment hang.

Yuri swallows, his eyes not leaving Victor’s.

“Uh- Victor?” says a small voice, interrupting the silence. “If you’re going to skate, is it alright if we watch?”

Victor turns to see Yuko Nishigori standing by the entry to the rink, her wide eyes hopeful.

“Of course you can!” smiles Victor.

\--

This isn’t what he’d been hoping for.

Instead of a private performance with Yuri’s undivided attention, this just feels like another day training at a busy rink. He was expecting intimacy, Yuri’s hushed reverence where he didn’t take his eyes off Victor’s body for a single moment. He’s not going to get it. The Nishigori family are impossible to ignore. They keep speaking to Yuri, stealing his attention away from Victor.

He takes a deep breath and slides out onto the ice anyway. He can do this. He can skate so it’s impossible for any of them, especially Yuri, to look away. It feels good being back on the ice. He’s missed it, even though it’s only been a few days. This is the rink where Yuri filmed his program, where he learned to skate; there’s something special in that too. This is going to be their space for the next few months. Who knows what this ice will see.

He can do this. He reaches the middle of the rink and turns, pressing the toe of his skate into the ice, steady. He didn’t request any music, he doesn’t need it any more. This is what Victor has been dreaming about, isn’t it? Yuri is right here and he’s watching. His workout this morning loosened up his tight muscles, he’s feeling great. This will be fine. He swallows and drops his chin, ready.

The familiar notes play inside his head and he moves. Are they playing in Yuri’s head too? Yuri knows this routine almost as well as Victor does. He looks up, feeling every emotion form last night drag heavily at his arm as he arcs his hand up over his brow. He lets the weight of it pull him down as he follows the gesture, turning to pull his arms in close to his chest.

Yuri doesn’t know how much he’s hurting. No one does. He glides across the ice, arms out. It’s like he’s mirroring _Yuri’s_ performance instead of the other way around. How can someone else be so much better at presenting this program? Inhabit this heartbreak so perfectly and yet feel nothing? He lifts his arm up high and drops to one knee, turning back again to switch his direction, arms flying out in a wide arc. This is still his routine, he’s going to skate it with everything he feels.

Is Yuri watching? He looks over at the barriers, but all he sees in Yuko with her hands over her mouth. His jaw tightens but the rest of his body moves automatically, lifting his right arm ant turning in a tight circle. His muscles are poised for the first jump, a quad lutz. He lets it happen.

When he lands, he does it the new way, with his arms out. It takes all his focus to keep his mind on the elegant movements and not wondering whether Yuri is watching him or not. Can he see this? Victor’s arms are up, moving in long, sweeping movements, ready for the next part of his routine.

He flies into the next jump, his quad flip. The rink spins, a blur of colours and shapes flying around him. Yuri is there somewhere in the mess of movement. Victor closes his eyes, bracing for the crash of blade on ice.

His jump wasn’t perfect, but his landing is. The skate clicks back onto the ice, elegant. He turns, arms back down at his sides once his centre is stable again. Did Yuri see? That landing was exactly what Yuri struggles with when he competes. He keeps his eyes down, skating backwards with his arms out like he’s reaching for someone. Yuri. He wanted him last night, but all he got was a closed bedroom door. He feels it here, in his movements.

“Wow!” Yuko exclaims. “A quadruple flip, amazing!”

Victor can hear the triplets shouting in Japanese and Yuri’s hurried reply. His voice sounds sharp, is he angry? It doesn’t matter, Victor can’t stop to ask. He follows his routine as it leads him over to the other side of the rink, away from his small crowd of spectators.

Victor turns, putting everything into his triple axel. These three jumps in a row have always been tough. The world spins and he lands, far too hard. He doesn’t fall, at least. Over by the barriers, Yuri is still speaking.

“Okay okay!” says Takeshi, his voice booming out across the almost empty ice. His voice goes on, entirely in Japanese. Victor spares a moment to glance over in his direction. He’s grinning, an arm around Yuri. Yuri is smiling down at the ice. Even if Victor could understand them, they are both too far away to hear clearly. Anger boils in Victor’s throat. Why ask him to skate this routine at all if-

His spin. He almost misses the moment where he’s meant to kick off. He makes it by a hair’s breadth, one arm just shy of where it’s supposed to be. Only Yakov would notice. Perhaps Yuri too, if he was watching. Skaters don’t get Presentation Scores as high as Yuri’s without noticing mistakes like that. Victor is distracted. The spin isn’t fast enough. He kicks at the ice again, hard, to keep his momentum going. His feet are aching, and for what? No one is watching. He laces his fingers together behind his back, trying to keep his shaky breath even.

He turns, stepping out of the spin and flicking his arms back. His eyes fall on Yuri and Takeshi once again. Takeshi still has his arm around him. Jealousy flares hot in Victor’s stomach, he wants to be able to touch Yuri that way. At least Yuri is watching him now.

“Remember,” says Victor, plastering a pleasant smile onto his face, “you’re not setting foot in this rink until you drop some weight, little piggy!”

There’s a strange sort of satisfaction in watching Yuri’s face fall again.


	19. Chapter 19

Victor looks around the room, satisfied. It took him much longer than expected, but all his things are unpacked and ordered. He’s kept busy these last few hours, Yuri is off to the ballet studio for some training, leaving Victor alone and unsupervised. Never a wise move.

“What do you think Makka?” he asks, waving a hand at the room. He uses Russian, it’s nice. English is so tiring sometimes, though the all the practice he’s been getting is probably good.

The dog lifts his head from his spot on Victor’s bed and blinks slowly at him.

“Well, I think I’ve done a great job,” says Victor, hands on his hips.

Makka drops his head back onto the blankets, thumping his tail once in agreement.

It had taken a lot of hard work to get everything set up, but the result is great. He has a couple of sofas, a low bookshelf and a coffee table all organised. The bed was difficult to slide into place, but it’s perfect now too. His clothes are packed away in the wardrobe and all his empty boxes are stacked neatly in the dark storage room. Maybe if he’d never been a figure skater, he would have done alright as an interior decorator. The only thing missing from the room is the framed poster of himself and the babushka dolls from downstairs. He has a space clear for them, though. He grins to himself. Once he has them, his vision for the room will be complete.

The rest of Victor and Yuri’s session at the skating rink had gone better. Once Victor had finished his sloppy rendition of _Stammi Vicino_ , they’d sat down with the Nishigori family and worked out a plan for getting Yuri back into shape. Yuri had spent most of the strategy session silent, his eyes on the floor. Not that it swayed anyone to go easy on him. Victor was serious about not letting Yuri out onto the ice at the weight he is, it’s far too dangerous for him to be attempting anything new with a handicap like that. Besides, banning him from training will be a good motivator to get him back in shape. And it will give Victor some time to think.

Victor taps his chin with a fingertip. He has to keep himself in shape too if he’s going to coach Yuri properly. He sinks to the floor and begins his evening stretches. After this, he’ll ice his feet and his knees. Then dinner, probably. And maybe a dip in the hot springs. If Yuri wants to join him for any of it, that will be fine, but he won’t push. He’s finally learned his lesson.

He leans forward, resting his forehead on his knee so he can start to stretch out his right hamstring. He’s curious about the ballet studio, but Yuri didn’t invite him along this time. That’s okay. He’s tired and he’ll visit at some point. Minako is probably just working on cardio and conditioning with Yuri. She can’t do much more with him, the way he is.

Victor grimaces, switching sides. Yuri seems much more comfortable with Minako around. Does he have feelings for her? She’s slim and quite beautiful, Victor can see the appeal. But- Victor is beautiful too, isn’t he? He grips a little tighter at his ankle, pulling himself down into the stretch until the muscles sting. He can’t be too bad. He could have hoards of journalists and fans screeching at the door with one tweet. Yuri would probably hate him for that too.

None of this matters. Victor shifts up, then down again, pressing lighter into the stretch. He isn’t here to seduce Yuri now, he’s here to be his coach. He’s signed up for this, so now he has to follow through. It will be worth it. Everyone will see that Victor means what he says, that he’s more than just a good looking skater. He can be as smart as any other coach. He’s seen what Yuri can do, there is so much raw talent there. All Victor has to do, is get that out of him in competition.

How did Yakov start with him? It is so long ago now that he barely remembers. He’d been the gawky pale kid with a love for fashion and food. Yakov might have taken him out to dinner someplace. Was it a Chinese place? Italian? Yakov probably remembers every word they said that evening even though it would have been over ten years ago. Victor can’t even remember if it was in St Petersburg or not. But it must have been something like that. Whenever Yakov brings in a new student, it’s almost like a honeymoon. He spends as much time as he can with the skater, learning everything there is to know about them. Their fears, strengths, what motivates them. Victor has seen him do it hundreds of times with other skaters and it always works. Everyone trusts Yakov as their coach. Victor has to do that as well. He has to learn everything so he can be a good coach. So he can help Yuri skate his best.

\--

“Tell me about Yuri.”

“What would you like to know?” asks Hiroko, kneeling down at the pillow on the opposite side of the low table. Her face is friendly and open, completely different to Yuri despite how similar they look.

Victor shifts the ice pack over to his right ankle.  “Anything you like. If I’m going to be his coach, I need to know everything about him.” Yuri isn’t going to give anything away, so his mother is the next best thing. He’s run out of other ideas.

“Well, what has he told you so far?” she asks.

Victor shrugs. “Not much. He’s very quiet.” Frustratingly so.

“I’m not surprised,” says Hiroko, grinning. “He’s idolised you for years.”

“Has he,” says Victor, careful to keep most of the intrigue out of his voice. This is useful information. “I had wondered.” He quite likes the idea of being Yuri’s idol, and it explains some of Yuri’s nerves since Victor arrived here. The champagne at the banquet must have given him more courage than Victor had realised.

“Oh,” Hiroko looks surprised. “Sorry, I assumed you knew. You saw inside his bedroom, didn’t you?”

“No, he wouldn’t let me go in there.” The memory of the night before still stings a little.

Hiroko giggles, then quickly covers her mouth with a hand. “Sorry,” she says.

“Why?” asks Victor, drawing out the word. “What’s in there?” It’s taking all the self-control he has not to dump the ice pack and race up the stairs to see. At the time, he’d assumed Yuri didn’t want Victor getting close to him. It hadn’t even occurred to him that Yuri might be hiding something in there. But- what?

“Oh, just- well,” she shakes her head. “Nothing bad, don’t worry, dear.”

“If it’s nothing bad, then why can’t you tell me?” asks Victor.

“Well, if Yuri didn’t want you to see, then,” she shrugs, “you know.”

“Hmm,” Victor fixes her with a charming smile, hoping it will help. “You’re making me very curious.”

Hiroko returns the smile, unfazed. “Yuri will open up in his own time. It’s important not to rush him. When he was a boy, it was always hard to figure out what he wanted,” she pauses, considering her words. “He doesn’t like to ask for help.”

“He’s different to what I was expecting,” admits Victor.

“What were you expecting?”

“I’m not sure,” Victor shrugs. “When we met for the first time, it was after a competition. He was so confident. He definitely knew what he wanted," he swallows, remembering. "But ever since then, he’s been much more- reserved. I’m not sure how to approach coaching him.” For some reason it feels okay to tell Hiroko. She knows Yuri as well as anyone, she will understand what he means. She won’t think he is a bad coach for admitting weakness. He’d never be so honest with Yakov, or Chris or any of the other skaters.

“Well,” Hiroko shifts, resting her hands on the table. “You don’t get to be the number one figure skater in Japan without knowing what you want.”

“Hmm,” Victor nods, letting his eyes drop.

“He _does_ know what he wants,” she persists. “He just forgets that he has to tell people sometimes.”

“So what I have to do is get him to relax and open up to me?” Victor asks. How the hell is he going to do that?

Hiroko chuckles. “If anyone can do it, it’s you.”

\--

Once he’s finished icing his feet, Victor heads back to his room. Yuri is still out at the ballet studio and it’s silent in the corridor leading to their bedrooms. Victor reaches his own door and pauses, looking over at the end of the corridor. Yuri’s bedroom door sits, resolutely closed. He sighs, looking down. His hair falls over his eyes as he grips at his own door handles, considering his options.

He shouldn’t, but the curiosity is killing him. He lets his hands fall. He has two options. One of them is unacceptable. He sighs and turns, pushing his hair back from his brow. It only takes a few strides for him to reach Yuri’s door. This will help him be a better coach. It will. He presses onto the cool wood before he has a chance to change his mind. It swings open.

The space inside- Yuri’s bedroom, is bare. There’s a bed and a desk and some baseball caps hung up on one wall. A red suitcase sits, still packed by the foot of his bed. His wardrobe is messy, but otherwise unremarkable. Victor steps into the room. He can see some figure skating trophies in the wardrobe too, but no medals. Whatever it was that he was supposed to notice, it’s gone now. Either that, or he’s even less observant than everyone thinks he is.

He looks around again, eyes tracing their way over the cactus on Yuri’s desk, the pile of towels in the corner. Nothing is out of the ordinary. There’s some papers stuffed hastily into one of the bottom drawers of Yuri’s wardrobe. Victor narrows his eyes and takes a step towards them.

Is this how he’s going to earn Yuri’s trust?

He stops, guilt welling up in his stomach. What is he doing? He shouldn’t be in here. If Yuri knew, he’d probably be sent packing on the next flight back to Russia. He looks around the bare room. Something has changed in here because of him. Something Yuri wasn’t comfortable sharing with him yet and he’s just going to- what? Go through his sock drawers until Yuri has no secrets left? Yakov would never do something like this to any of his students. Yet here Victor is, taking things too far. Again.

He sits down on Yuri's bed and rests his face in his palms, breathing out long and slow. This is exactly what Yakov had meant. He’s a bad coach and he hasn’t even started coaching yet. For a minute, he lets the helplessness wash over him. He wants to be back in Russia where everything is simple. He could follow the rules and skate and everyone would gasp and smile. At the end of the day, he’d go home alone, the winter snow swirling around him. It wasn’t true happiness, but it was better than this.

He opens his eyes and slowly lifts his head, staring at the blank wall opposite. He should leave before someone finds him in here. He sighs, sliding his hand across the blanket. Yuri’s blanket. He doesn’t want to go. But staying and letting his curiosity take over- that would be like giving up on doing this properly. He can’t. Not yet.

He stands. Before he can give in, he turns and heads out of the room, closing the door behind him.


End file.
